


Gestalt

by LiteraryBitca



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lizzington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-07 18:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4273653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteraryBitca/pseuds/LiteraryBitca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following 2x10, Red and Liz continue tracking criminals and Blacklisters, but avoid having the conversation they need to have with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Skinny Man

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: I love when Red tells stories. It's that simple. Also, I've vaguely set this in the aftermath of 2x10.

…:::…

Liz shoved the man through the doorway and with a firm hand on his left shoulder, she forced him down into a chair on the far side of the only furniture in the drafty room: a small, rickety wood table that, like the rest of the contents of the warehouse, had seen better days. She crossed to the window and surveyed the street below through the shabby curtain's tears, finding it as deserted as it was when they first arrived.

Reddington sat down across from the skinny man with the ponytail and unhurriedly crossed his legs. "Do you know what 'gestalt' is?" he asked pleasantly.

The other man's brow creased, and he sneered. "Is it a kind of food?"

"No, it's not." Reddington sighed, and removed his hat, placing it on the table in front of himself. "It's a specific kind of experimental psychology, invented in the late 1800s, which was somewhat championed by the Berlin School, and pieces of which are still studied and found to be applicable in today's society."

The man's sneer turned from contempt to one of confusion.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Reddington apologized glibly, "let me dumb that down for you a bit. You know those pictures of fruit, and it's also a face? That's Gestalt."

"What?" The man's tone was harsh as his confusion about the topic deepened, but he understood he was being mocked.

"Have you heard the phrase, 'the whole is greater than the sum of its parts'?" Reddington reached out and adjusted his fedora on the table, lining the edges of the hat up with the grooves and scrapes scarred into the top of the wood table.

"That's actually a mistranslation," Liz interrupted from her post by the window. "The original idea was that the whole was _other_ than the sum of its parts. Not more; just a separate entity." She didn't look at either man as she spoke.

"See?" Reddington looked back at the long-haired man with no small measure of delight. " _She_ knows what I'm talking about."

"Why should I give a fuck about a bunch of German shrinks from a hundred years ago?" the man spat.

"Just be quiet and listen for a second; you're going to learn something," Reddington replied, holding a hand out as if to reinforce his command to hush. "Now, one of the many ideas the Gestalt school of thought studied was a way of communicating. They figured you could either give advice or instructions outright, or you could tell someone a story, something with relevance and similar key points to the problem at hand. The theory is that while people _hate_ being _told_ what to do, they _love_ hearing a good story. And a story gets remembered, it resonates much more. If you tell someone a good tale, it sinks in.

"It's also a great way to give advice in what is perceived to be a more non-judgmental fashion. If you tell someone a tale about something similar," Reddington interrupted himself and lowered his voice conspiratorially, leaning in toward the other man, "preferably a personal story from your past—this creates more of a connection and builds trust—" Reddington leaned back and continued, "—they can infer your opinion and advice from it, without the storyteller appearing demanding, or confrontational.

"Now, while it's supposed to be an approach that is the ultimate in helpfulness without judgment, I find it works _wonders_ as a manipulation technique, as well. People are much more willing to do what you want them to do if you don't _tell_ them to do it outright, or if they think _they_ came up with the idea based on something you just happened to mention. People don't tend to like being told what to do, but they love thinking they're intelligent enough to solve problems and make decisions."

"Red, we don't have much longer," Liz warned, continuing her watchfulness of the street below.

Reddington nodded, not taking his eyes off the skinny man. "Personally, I use this technique quite a bit. I find it works nicely to smooth edges and maintain international friendships in occasionally harsh cultural situations. Any instructions I give with this method appear to be more of a gentle suggestion. Any admission of guilt, or feelings, is lessened to nothing more than a parable; a quirky tale told by an eccentric middle-aged man. So my stories serve to take the potential weight out of an answer to a sticky question. They allow for plausible deniability."

The other man shifted in his seat uncomfortably, and cleared his throat, much of his bravado gone. "Listen, man, I don't care about your stories or whatever the hell you've got going on with my bosses. If you're going to ask me for information, or to do something for you, just get on with it. Your girlfriend over there obviously thinks you need to speed this up, and if it'll cut your professor bullshit short, I agree with her."

Reddington's gaze narrowed as he continued to study the other man before resuming his story as if he'd never been interrupted. "This style of conversation also allows me to test the intelligence of the person I'm speaking to. A stupid listener won't be able to figure out why I'm suddenly telling a seemingly unrelated story about my first job as a teenager, or ugly fish and rays of light in Mexico. An intelligent listener will understand the deeper message and apply it to the situation or relationship at hand. Sometimes I end up having to spell out the lesson. Tell someone point blank that I value loyalty above all else. Other people are smart enough to understand that I mean _they_ are the ray of light in my story."

Without taking his eyes off the other man, Reddington watched Liz's form in the corner of his vision, still watchful at the window. She didn't move. Reddington sighed out a slightly exasperated breath and shook his head at the other man. "Now, since the current look on your face is more glazed over than one of Mr. Svoboda's specialty strawberry bismarcks, I'm guessing you're not one of my intelligent listeners—"

"Fuck you."

"—so I'm going to spell it out for you. A team of individuals are going to arrive here in less than five minutes. If you've told me where I can find the Armenians by then, we'll be long gone, and you can explain the dead bodies downstairs any which way your little heart desires. If you haven't told me anything, we'll have to shoot our way out, and you'll most likely die in the crossfire. As you can tell by the body count on the first floor, my colleague and I have very good aim, but occasionally even the best make mistakes, and I'm fairly certain I'm going to make five or six mistakes into your chest if I don't get what I want. Now."

Red leaned forward and palmed his hat back onto his head. "The Armenians," he prompted.

The other man looked uncomfortable, but cleared his throat. "1113 Clark Street, basement apartment. Go in through the back; they've got cameras out front but none in the alley behind them."

"They're _all_ there?"

The man rolled his eyes and sighed. "Vatche won't be, he'll be three blocks down at the pub. The Churchill. Misak might be with him."

Reddington stood as Liz abandoned her post at the window and headed for the door.

"Hey, I told you—!" The man's exclamation was cut short by the sound of two shots, and he slumped sideways in his chair.

Liz spun to see Reddington lowering his gun as he turned toward her and the door. He paused at her disappointed, angry look.

"What was the point of telling him that whole story? We didn't have that time to waste," she said, her tone harsh.

"Who said the story was for him?" Reddington replied, starting toward the door.

"You didn't have to kill him," Liz said in a low voice.

"Ugly fish, remember?" he said, brushing past her through the doorway.

…:::…

As usual, I have a general idea of where this is going, but it's not fully formed yet. Stick around to see what pops into my head next. :) I'm hoping I have several more chapters in me, because my vision for this fic works better the more chapters it gets. Also, thank you to the FB Lizzington Shippers for the "Svoboda" reference fact checking!

Please take the time to tell me what you think! Reviews make me grin and squee, and it's a super easy way to totally make another human being's day!


	2. The Armenians

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: I'm not a psychologist. I've looked up the stuff I'm including, but not _thoroughly_ , so I'm no expert by any stretch of the imagination. I'm okay with any minor errors in the technical stuff Red describes because I figure he's not a trained psychologist either, and his wisdom comes more from a constant state of learning through experience and a sometimes meandering collection of facts over the years. Let me know if you're well-versed in this stuff and I'm wildly off base, though, please?

…:::…

Dembe forced the last of the Armenians down to the ground with firm pressure to the back of one knee. The men, their hands firmly zip-tied behind them, knelt in a line on the cold concrete of an empty, hollowed out building across the back alley from their apartment on Clark Street. Mr. Kaplan was still there, combing through their belongings, looking for anything useful that should be removed before the FBI arrived.

Reddington stood in front of the men, with Liz several paces behind him, where she was joined silently by Dembe. Reddington paced leisurely from one end of the line of men to the other, his hands clasped behind his back, still holding his gun.

"I subscribe to the idea that you should never stop trying to improve yourself," Reddington began conversationally. "I never want to stop learning, or acquiring new knowledge. Lately, I've been on a bit of a psychology kick as far as research goes. You know, repressed memories, PTSD, traumatically-induced amnesia, those sorts of things. Your claims that you were just following orders struck a chord with me because of one study in particular—somewhat famous—the Milgram experiment; have you heard of it?" Reddington paused briefly to allow a response from the men on their knees, but they just glowered from their positions on the floor and stayed silent. "No, I thought as much." He turned to where Liz and Dembe stood behind him. " _You're_ familiar with Milgram," he stated, inclining his head toward Liz.

"Another story, Red? What's the point of this one?" Liz asked, the edge to her voice and coldness in her eyes striking a rude tone.

"Now, see, if I give you the lesson and skip the story, it defeats the purpose of my method," Red replied, slightly irritated.

"So this is another lesson for _me_? Not them?"

Reddington spread his arms and his mouth widened into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's a lesson for everyone," he said grandly, spinning back to face the Armenians. "Now, where were we? Ah, Milgrim. In the early 1960s, a psychologist performed a set of experiments where he invited subjects into a lab, and told one they would be the 'teacher' administering a series of shocks to the other—a 'learner'—when the learner failed to complete a task appropriately. The teacher met the learner, and then they were moved into two separate, but adjoining rooms.

"Over the course of the experiment, the learner failed multiple times, and the teacher was instructed to increase the voltage each time he delivered a shock. By the time the shocks reached a _terrible_ level, the learner could be heard in the next room screaming and begging to be released, banging on the wall for mercy. The conductor of the experiment would pressure the teacher to continue if there was any hesitation, sometimes telling the subject they had _no choice_ but to continue, and it was _imperative_ that the shocks be delivered." Reddington stopped pacing in front of a rusted metal chair. After giving the seat a cursory inspection for cleanliness, he sat down, and resumed his story, his voice deep and quiet.

"By the time the final, largest shock was administered three times, all noise in the next room had ceased. The 'teacher' subjects were in various states of composure by that point, some handling it better than others, but guess how many of this random sampling of the population were willing to continue to torture another human being simply because they were being told to do so?" Reddington scanned across the line of bound men. "Anyone? No? Over _sixty percent_. Willing to continue to shock a fellow participant past the point of unconsciousness, and possibly even kill them, after listening to them _beg_ for the torture to stop, just because someone in a position of authority had told them to do so."

"Nah," one of the men scoffed. "That's illegal or something. You're making this shit up. Scientists can't just kill people."

"I believe it's illegal for _you_ to kill people, too, but that hasn't stopped you, has it?" Reddington paused, shifting in his chair. "And in the interest of full disclosure, the experiment was rigged. There were never any shocks, and the 'learner' in the next room was an actor, who would bang on the wall and play recordings of desperate screams at certain pre-selected points designed to correspond to the intensity of the fake torture."

"That's fucked up," the man directly in front of Reddington piped up.

Reddington raised his eyebrows and bobbed his head in agreement. "So yes, you were all just following orders. It doesn't change the fact that you did what you did. Forty percent of people still would have said no. That's why I hang around with these two," he added, extending an arm behind himself to point at Liz and Dembe. "They're the forty percent."

"Lemme guess," said the same man, "you'd be part of the sixty percent who kept shocking the poor bastards in the next room?"

"No," Reddington said shaking his head and chuckling without humor. " _You're_ the sixty percent. I'm the guy running the experiment." He stood up and regarded the men before him, his head tilted quizzically to one side. He tapped his gun absently against his outer thigh.

"Reddington," Liz warned.

Reddington worked his jaw once, and let out a long breath before turning away to start the walk back to his car. "Call it in. Dembe, you're with me. I need to make a call."

"You're leaving me here with them?" Liz called after them, her cell phone pressed to her ear as she waited through the series of clicks to be connected to someone at the Post Office.

Dembe continued toward the harsh light streaming in through the large entrance to the building, but Reddington slowed and spun to walk backwards, facing Liz. "We're not going far, Agent Keen; I just need the sat phone in the trunk." He gestured at the group of men. "They're secured very well, and you've got a gun. If one of them moves, step into the muck of the sixty percent, and shoot him." With that, he turned and disappeared out into the daylight.

…:::…

While the FBI swarmed both the apartment and the abandoned building behind it, Reddington waited quietly in the alley, just under the narrow overhang of a roof far above, avoiding the dreary, steady drizzle of light rain.

Liz walked purposefully from one of the FBI vans to where Reddington stood, her flat boots splashing unconcernedly through the shallow puddles.

"Why the cryptic lessons and stories, Red?" she asked, scowling. "You're being much more heavy-handed with them today." She stopped several steps away from him, farther than their usual observed personal space with each other.

"I tried calling you yesterday. Several times. And the day before that. I think there have been more than ten attempts on my part to talk to you over the last few days, following everything that happened with Braxton." Reddington gave a small, sad smile before adding, "Some people might get their feelings hurt by that kind of cold shoulder treatment."

"I'm working with you. That's all. I don't want to have any contact with you on a personal basis outside of the job," Liz explained, her face hard.

Reddington squinted at Liz through his tinted glasses. "If the only time you'll allow me to be in a room with you is during our little chats with thugs and other evil-doers, I'm going to make the most of that time." He took a step toward her, and she mirrored his actions, reversing a step and placing her hands on her hips, a steely look fastened on her face. When he spoke again, his voice was a low and pained. "Lizzie, I want to apologize for—"

"So this morning you hammered home the ugly fish and sunbeam story," she interrupted, "and this afternoon, you, what? Wanted to tell me you like the fact that I wouldn't torture someone just to follow orders?" Liz paused, and raised her eyebrows. "Are you sure about that? Given what you know about…" She trailed off and glanced around, dropping her voice to barely above a whisper as she shifted from one foot to the other. "…about what I did to Tom?"

A strange look passed over Red's face that Liz couldn't interpret, and he sighed, looking off down the length of the alley. "That was a different situation entirely, Lizzie. That was…" He cleared his throat and looked back in her direction after a long moment. "What is your opinion of the ethics behind Milgram?" he asked, redirecting the conversation.

"The ethics?" Liz repeated.

"Behind the experiment. Those sixty percent… Criticism of the study methods say the subjects who administered the complete series of shocks… some were crying, some were sweating, some felt sick, or faint. There may have been lasting psychological damage done to the volunteers for the sake of experimental results and scientific discovery."

"Are you asking if I believe the end justifies the means?" Liz asked.

Reddington raised his eyebrows in a silent gesture of inquiry.

Liz blew a hard breath out and crossed her arms, turning her body away from Red and frowning in the direction of the FBI van. "No," she said finally, looking down at her boots, inch-deep in the standing water of one of the alley's pot holes.

"You believed it did with Tom."

Liz's head snapped up, anger flashing across her face. "You _just said_ that was a different situation—"

Reddington shook his head, his face creased with emotion, and took another step forward, just to have Liz retreat again the same distance. He immediately held up his hands in surrender and bowed his head, as if to promise he would not advance any further. "What I'm trying to say is… there's never a _one hundred percent_ correct reaction to anything. Ethics and morals are _always_ dependant on the situation. Our reactions, and what we are willing to do, _always_ depend on what's at stake."

"And you were willing to torture me when the Fulcrum was at stake."

Reddington's mouth opened and closed, words trying desperately to tumble from his lips, but he pursed them shut. His right hand moved to his abdomen, as if to signify that his reply came from deep within him. "Lizzie, _please_ let me apologize for—"

"I don't want to hear it," Liz said flatly as she spun on her heels and strode back to the command vehicle, grabbing the metal bar along the side and climbing into the van, leaving Reddington alone in the worsening rain.

…:::…

You know how I said I wasn't sure exactly where this was going to go? Well, apparently it's going to Angst Land before it goes anywhere fun. :) It might take awhile for Liz to forgive him for this one.

Please take the time to read and review! My grins could power the Eastern seaboard when I see a notification for a new review. :)


	3. Malcolm

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: I'm having so much fun with these stories. :D This should be illegal it's so much fun. Skipping all the other filler and just writing his monologues? I know I'm cheating, but it _feels so right_. ;)

…:::…

Reddington narrowed his eyes at Malcolm as he walked in the door. He glanced around the massive foyer, taking a moment to study the huge—and often garish—works of art and sculpture crowding the space. There was a large green glass horse head atop an obelisk in the very center of the expensive marble floor, and Liz stood off to one side, setting Dembe's duffel down next to a massive jumble of metal cubes and what looked like interlocking pieces of rebar that stretched from the floor nearly all the way up to the top of the entrance's vaulted ceiling.

Reddington stopped in front of a glass case that held a suspended orange umbrella in it, with what appeared to be a knitted reproduction of the human heart dangling from the umbrella's handle. He crinkled his nose and let out a noise of dissatisfaction. "Your collection makes me suddenly appreciate Vermeer's homely, appetite-stealing girl and her god-awful music." He shook his head uncomprehendingly. "We do _not_ share the same taste in art, I'm afraid."

"You have just made a terrible mistake, Raymond Reddington," Malcolm said, held in place by the warning inherent in the weight of Dembe's hand on his shoulder. "The Armenians were my blunt instrument. Taking them out did nothing to weaken my business. And as for you coming here today, I have cameras all over this property, and I pay for the best security firm in—"

"Yes, yes, your security system is top-notch," Reddington agreed, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. He pointed up at a lens tucked into the crown molding of the foyer. "If only it was turned on right now. See, we know your wife is three time zones away in Napa this weekend, and we also know that your mistress, Claudia, always arrives promptly at ten when you plan to spend the day together. After she gave her usual four rings at the gate, we had a short talk, and she's currently in the trunk of my car."

Malcolm opened his mouth angrily and moved to step forward, but Dembe's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"Alive and well, I assure you," Reddington hurried to explain. "Fairly cramped, though. The trunk space in this particular model is _abysmal_." He clasped his hands in front of himself and nodded. "Every time your wife goes out of town, Claudia shows up here at ten, rings four times at the gate, _you_ turn off your entire security system so there is no record of her entering the property or bouncing around on you in just about _every_ room in this house, and you turn the system back on when she leaves, generally about twelve hours later. Your security company knows this; expects it." Reddington smiled. "And will therefore not be concerned for quite some time."

Malcolm paled.

Reddington narrowed his eyes and studied Malcolm for a long moment before tilting his head and shifting his gaze to Liz. After apparently coming to a decision, he started, "When I was young, I often played with a boy who lived down the street from me, Christopher Basler."

Liz rolled her eyes, "Okay… I'm not sitting through any more of this. If you're launching into one of your stories, I'll wait in the car. You gentlemen have fun."

"While I'm sure Claudia would enjoy the company, I'd prefer it if you stayed here," Reddington said as Liz bent to pick up the bag at her feet, ignoring Red.

"Fine," he relented, seeing she was about to leave, "but I need one thing from that bag before you take it with you." He crossed the marble floor to where Liz had knelt to unzip the duffel, waiting for Reddington to make his selection from the contents. He leaned down and rummaged for a moment, while Liz turned to look out the tall front window at their car in the ostentatious circular driveway.

Hearing a metallic clang and the familiar clicks of handcuffs closing, Liz looked down to find her right wrist in one side of a pair of heavy cuffs. She pulled back immediately, losing her balance and falling from a crouch onto her hip. She gave several quick, futile wrenches, but the other cuff had already been fastened around the bottom of the massive rebar art installation she'd chosen to stand next to.

"Reddington!" she snarled, surprised and angry. She made a quick grab for the duffel, hoping to find the keys, but Red had already pushed it out of her reach and stood. He took a few steps backward as she lashed out at his ankle with a swift kick that missed by inches.

"Oh, don't get your panties in a twist, Lizzie, it's not like I'm going to leave you there." He watched as she quickly ran the other half of the handcuffs up and down the bar she was attached to, but it was soldered to large metal cubes on each end. She glared silently up at Reddington from the floor and reached into her hair to remove a pin, which she pulled straight and immediately went to work on the handcuff mechanism.

Reddington rolled his eyes, and turned back to Malcolm. "While I've never seen her do this, I assume she's good at it, so we'll have to make this quick." He walked over to stand in front of the other man. Dembe released Malcolm's shoulder and stepped back.

"Christopher Basler. Boy down the street. He had an older sister, Catherine, who would look after us on occasion, and she did fairly well, considering we were both extremely rambunctious children. One very warm summer day we were playing in their backyard with a hose and a small wading pool, dashing back and forth into the house when we decided we needed a snack, or a new battalion of army men to augment the forces already waging war in the grass. They had a large sliding glass door that led into the kitchen, and had been open all day long. As the afternoon progressed, I noticed bugs were getting into the house, so I closed it. Poor little Christopher didn't notice, and the next time he went pelting toward the house for something, he crashed right through the glass. What a _mess._ That kid bled like a stuck pig, and _never_ forgave me. But you see," Reddington took another step closer to Malcolm, "I always thought it was his fault. He was used to there being an unimpeded pathway there, but he should have looked closer. Just because it was safe the last seven times you did something does _not_ mean it's safe the eighth time around." Reddington paused before continuing gravely, "I'm going to need your client list for the last six months."

"You can't be serious; I would never—"

"Claudia is alive and well right now, Malcolm. But if we tie you up here and drive away, you'll never see that girl again. She's in this country illegally, and I have it on good authority that there are people in Minsk who would be quite pleased if she was returned to her homeland."

Malcolm growled. "You're a bastard."

"Yes," Reddington agreed. "Often and unapologetically." He gestured a hand toward a hallway that led off to the left and prompted, "I'm sure the list is in your office. Dembe will escort you."

As the two men walked away, Reddington turned back to where Liz sat cross-legged on the hard marble of the foyer. He sighed and shook his head, his gaze on her right arm, which lay, forgotten and out of his line of sight, behind one of her crossed legs next to the huge statue. "Now, really, Lizzie, I'm disappointed in you. You should have been out of that cuff minutes ago."

Liz's face was a careful mask, but there was a calculating, almost curious look in her eyes. Without dropping her gaze from Reddington's, she lifted her hand into view, holding the open cuff lightly between her thumb and index finger, establishing that she had freed herself some time ago. "Do you think I've already smashed through my glass door, or are you trying to warn me to be more careful?" she asked.

Red knelt next to the duffel and began to look for the handcuff keys. "Years later, when we were in high school, I took Catherine on a date. The topic of poor Christopher came up, and I asked her if she got in trouble because of what I'd done that day, shutting the door. Her parents must have come home to an awful sight: major damage done to their home, their youngest child screaming and bloody. Had she blamed me for the whole mess?" Reddington found the keys and leaned over Liz to unfasten the remaining cuff from the art piece. She didn't move, but watched him carefully. "It turned out that Catherine had always blamed herself. She felt horrible for what had happened to her little brother, and admitted she wished she'd just tied him down and locked him in his bedroom that day so he couldn't get into any trouble." Red sat back on his haunches, his palms steadied on his thighs, the handcuffs released and returned to the duffel. "At the time I thought that was a bit of an extreme length to go to. To protect someone she loved. Now…" he trailed off, and gave Liz a small, resigned smile.

Liz stayed seated for a long moment before, without a sound, she broke eye contact, stood, and walked back out to the car.

…:::…

Okay, so I know this is still full of angst, but I have to admit: I've never had such a laughing fit while writing _anything_ as I did with this chapter. I delight in the idea of Reddington bloodying up a friend, blaming the _other kid_ for destroying the friendship, and then growing up and dating the kid's _sister_ , and not only that, probably as a sophomore taking out a senior because of the age difference. It's the definition of a motherfucking P-I-M-P. (Crap, now I have 50 Cent stuck in my head...)

Hope you're all enjoying! Please take time to leave me a review! And thank you to EVERYONE who has favorited and followed so far! Much love to you all. :)


	4. Yves

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: Thank you for all the lovely reviews and encouragement since I posted the last chapter! I'm so flattered by all the love!

…:::…

Reddington walked into the restaurant and made a beeline for the back corner of the dining area where a man and a woman sat across from each other, enjoying the end of their meal.

"Yves! My God! You look phenomenal. How _do_ you manage to look younger each time we meet? How long has it been? Five? Ten years?" Without waiting for an invitation, Reddington pulled a chair from a neighboring table, moved it to where the couple sat, and held it out, motioning for Liz to sit. She did, the blonde woman at the table looking her up and down in confusion. The man's eyes remained fixed on Reddington as he circled around behind his dinner companion with a second chair, which he placed across from Liz to join the other three. The generous table easily accommodated the new members of the party.

Yves shifted in his seat, obviously trying his hardest to swallow his immediate unease at Reddington arriving—without warning—at his table. "Closer to five, I think, than ten," Yves said in a mild French accent, lifting his napkin from his lap to wipe at his mouth. "You walked out of a restaurant much like this one, leaving _me_ to pay an extraordinarily large bill. And I never heard from you again." He cleared his throat and reached for his water glass. "Until now. Which begs the question…" He took a sip of water and replaced the glass. "…to what do I now owe the pleasure?"

"I just dropped in on a friend of yours; Ernie Malcolm." Yves' expression darkened, but Reddington continued as if he hadn't noticed. "Have you ever been to his home? I've never seen such a god-awful, pretentious, direction-less hodge-podge of modern art in my _life_ , and I just pray I never have to again. But you didn't answer my first question." Reddington leaned in conspiratorially. "I'm guessing from the slight changes in your facial structure that it's not that you've discovered the fountain of youth, but that you've found a _wonderful_ plastic surgeon. Whoever they are, give them my compliments. _Excellent_ work."

Yves, uncomfortable, leaned back a fraction in his chair as Reddington squinted at his face, studying it closely. "New cheekbones, new chin, new _hair_ …" Reddington shot a look at Liz that seemed to suggest he was not a fan of hair plugs, "…even a new elevation of your eyelids, apparently." Reddington's head swung from Yves to his much younger dinner date, and he gave an appreciative smile as he looked her over. "And you. _You're_ new, too," he said.

Liz made a low, annoyed sound and looked out over the restaurant.

Reddington's smile never wavered as he gestured dismissively in her direction. "Don't mind her; she's still mad at me for handcuffing her to a metal strut this morning."

Liz's head snapped back around to glare at Reddington, her eyes flashing, but she said nothing.

"Raymond," Yves interjected, "Why are you here?"

"Yes, well, like I said, we paid a visit to Ernie Malcolm this morning and I requested a peek at his recent client list. Since I had quite the bargaining chip, he saved me the trouble of wading through the whole list by mentioning that the client I needed to talk to would be having dinner here tonight at this very table, and lo and behold, I walk in the door and find _your_ handsome, overly-botoxed face staring back at me." Reddington picked up the bottle of wine from the table and inspected the label.

"I have not had business dealings with Ernie in months, Raymond. Recently we've been doing nothing more than playing golf, and occasionally having dinner together. When his wife is out of town."

Reddington raised his eyebrows. "I had no idea you swung that way, Yves. So is she just for show?" he asked, turning to look at the blonde woman again.

"We have dinner when his wife is away," Yves said indignantly, motioning to his date, "because his girlfriend Claudia is friends with Aleksandra, and none of the four of us can stand Ernie's wife."

"Ah. Good." Red didn't break eye contact with Aleksandra, who returned his gaze evenly. "It would be a pity to waste…all of that." He waved his hand at the blonde, tilting his head to look her up and down again.

Liz repeated her noise from earlier, and added an eye roll.

Yves reached for his wine glass, seeming to relax a little after the shock of Red's arrival. "Raymond, your partner-in-crime appears to be quite envious of my Aleksandra," he smirked.

"Oh, no, I can assure you she isn't envious at all. Jealous, maybe, but not envious," Reddington replied, signaling a waiter to bring him a wine glass.

Yves swallowed his sip of wine and replaced his glass on the table. "Forgive me for not understanding the subtleties of the English language, but I thought envy and jealousy were essentially the same thing?" he said conversationally.

"Oh, no," Reddington said, smiling across the table at Liz. "'Envy' is coveting another's possession or attribute. Longing for something someone else has. I doubt Aleksandra has anything she wants. 'Jealousy', on the other hand, is something she and I have discussed before. It refers to the apprehension or fear that something you have will be taken away by someone else. It's the emotion you experience when you fear you may be replaced in the affection of someone you…care about."

Liz's face was impassive, and Reddington held her gaze for a long moment until they were interrupted by the arrival of a waiter with a wine glass.

"Ah! Marvelous," Red exclaimed, picking up the bottle of wine and pouring himself a glass. After closing his eyes to savor the first sip, he set the glass down with a satisfied smile and leaned back in his chair. "Yves," he began, his voice more serious than it had been before. "I'm going to need a name."

"Which I'm afraid I can't give you, because I do not know which name you want. I told you: I have not been a client of Ernie's for a long time. We enjoy each other's company socially. That is all. My business dealings have taken a different direction, so last year we split amicably—financially speaking—and since then have really only made time for one another when the ladies arrange it. So if you're looking for a recent name, I do not have it."

"I think there's a Pinocchio story in here somewhere about what happens to one's nose when one lies," Reddington told Liz, speaking across the table to her as if the other couple wasn't privy to their conversation, "but honestly, the man's had so much rhinoplasty I doubt there's any original tissue left to enlarge at this point. Whatever happened to aging gracefully?" he asked, a look of comically earnest confusion on his face. Without pausing, and with terrifying speed, Reddington smoothly palmed a discarded steak knife from Yves' plate and dropped his hand into the other man's lap under the table. Liz stiffened, but didn't speak. To anyone else in the restaurant, Reddington appeared to be leaning over with casual grace, sharing a joke with his dinner companion he didn't want their dates to hear.

"The name," he growled in a low voice.

Yves gripped the table in front of him with one hand, and dropped the other to Reddington's forearm under the table. "You'd murder me in public?" he hissed. "Cutting open an artery in this restaurant is not going to provide you with an opportunity for a subtle exit!"

"Oh, Yves, no, I'm not going to kill you. Yasmine would _never_ forgive me; I know she's still sentimental about you. But this blade is serrated, and frankly I'm a little curious to see what kind of damage it could do to your… baguette… if I don't get the name of your Russian contact."

Yves glared at Reddington, his breathing shallow and panicked.

"Oh come on, there's no need to hyperventilate. We know you have a talented surgeon who can probably put _Humpty_ Dumpty—more or less—back together again. But why find out? Just give me the name."

"Ernie lied!" Yves whispered harshly. "I have had no dealings with the Russians in years! I don't know what he told you, but—"

"Reddington," Liz said quietly, looking at the silent, still blonde woman to her right.

"Ernie didn't lie, Yves—" Reddington continued, ignoring Liz.

" _Reddington_ ," Liz said again, more forcefully.

Reddington pursed his lips and exhaled sharply, looking at Liz with irritation at being interrupted. "What is it?" he asked, annoyed.

Liz was still staring at Aleksandra. "Malcolm told you the person you needed to talk to would be at this table tonight. Did he tell you it would be _him_?"

Reddington eased back from Yves, slowly replacing the steak knife on the table as he turned his attention to Aleksandra, who returned his gaze with a cool stare.

"Well done, Lizzie," Red said quietly, his voice impressed. He smiled at the blonde woman. "You must have been _so amused_ when I dismissed you earlier as nothing more than arm candy. My sincerest apologies, my dear, but I can assure you," Red lowered his voice even more. "You now have my _undivided_ attention."

…:::…

Cliffhanger! Agghh! Everybody panic! …actually, no need to do anything of the sort: I'm going to update this pretty quick. You'll get the conclusion REALLY soon. ;) And I know, I didn't do a complete story/lesson in this one, but it comes in the second half of this little dinner date. I'm not throwing my formula out just yet.

Review! Please! Let me know what you think! :D


	5. Yves: Conclusion

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: We need more female Blacklisters. That is all.

…:::…

Reddington smiled at Aleksandra and leaned toward her. "You must have been _so amused_ when I dismissed you earlier as nothing more than arm candy. My sincerest apologies, my dear, but I can assure you," Red lowered his voice. "You now have my _undivided_ attention."

The blonde woman smiled serenely and lifted her wine to take a sip. She looked pointedly at Reddington's glass over the rim of her own. "How do you like our wine tonight?" she asked casually.

"I find it complex, smoky, and just slightly flamboyant." Reddington smiled and twirled the glass gracefully by the stem. "Since it reminds me of me, I'm enjoying it _immensely_."

"Mmmm," Aleksandra smirked at Reddington, but didn't attempt to continue the flirtation, instead falling into a confident silence.

Realizing the woman did not intend to give anything away easily, Reddington looked back at Yves. "Did you know? No. Look at your face. You don't know a thing." His eyes cut back to Aleksandra. "You and Claudia. You're both much more clever than your boyfriend here gives you credit for."

Aleksandra smiled again.

"The occasional double dates you four go on? Yves had no idea that you were using those as business dinners with Ernie Malcolm, hmm? Very nice." Reddington gestured toward the other man at the table. "But if you're the one running the show, why even bother to keep this one around?"

Aleksandra gave a playful pout. "No matter how clever a beautiful woman is, men like you are hesitant to get into bed with her." She looked Reddington up and down, much the same as he had done to her when he'd first sat down before adding , her voice a purr, "…professionally speaking, of course."

"Of course," he repeated, bowing his head in agreement with her assessment and mirroring her smile. "So you're continuing in the grand tradition of women like Margaret Bulkley."

Aleksandra narrowed her eyes coquettishly. "Who?" she asked sweetly.

"The first woman to become a British medical doctor, back in the 1800s. Performed the first successful cesarean section in Africa in which both the mother and child survived. Became an Inspector General in charge of several military hospitals. And all this during a time when women weren't even allowed to attend medical school." Reddington gave a short laugh and shook his head.

"If she couldn't go to medical school, how did she manage that career?" Aleksandra asked congenially, taking another sip of wine.

"Oh, she went to medical school. As a man: James Barry." Reddington looked back at Yves, who appeared slightly shell-shocked. "She's been using your name to run her business," he explained. "In case you haven't been keeping up." As Reddington returned his attention to Aleksandra, he moved his hand from the stem of his wine glass to the steak knife still sitting in front of him.

Aleksandra laughed. "And what do you plan to do with that?" she asked. "I have no… 'baguette'? For you to threaten."

"No. No, you don't." Reddington held the knife by the handle, the point gently touching the tablecloth. "But I'm also guessing you're smart enough not to let anything happen that could link your current business enterprises back to you. Or should I say, _Yves'_ current business enterprises. Everything's in his name, and if things get sticky, you can effect a _very_ clean getaway. Am I correct?"

Aleksandra's sphinx-like smile widened just a fraction.

Reddington laid the knife back down.

Before Reddington could continue, Liz spoke up in a professional tone. "Aleksandra, in just the past few days, we've gotten to Claudia, Yves, Ernie Malcolm, and his entire hired set of thugs in the pursuit of the Russian contact we're asking you for now. Before that, we killed several men while raiding a warehouse." Liz's eyes moved from the other woman to Reddington with a look of curbed disdain. "After the final— _un-armed_ —man there answered all of our questions helpfully, _he_ still shot him twice in the chest. He's violent, and reckless, and a liar." Liz returned her attention to Aleksandra. "I detest having to work with this man right now, but my circumstances are such that it's still necessary for the moment, and I can't deny that his boorish methods get results. Now, while we don't even have your last name yet, we've worked with less. We have more than enough information already to make problems for you in future, and _cripple_ your current business. I think it's in your best interest to give me the contact, and leave Yves to pay whatever debts you've racked up in his name. Cut your losses, and move on. We both know you can build a new empire easily, and I'm sure you've gotten bored with _yours_ ," Liz motioned to Yves, "the way I've grown frustrated with _mine_ ," Liz finished, looking pointedly at Reddington, whose face was a patient mask.

Aleksandra sighed, smoothly uncrossed her legs under the table, and reached for her clutch. "Arkady Golovkin," she offered lightly. Taking a final sip of her wine, she studied Liz. "Good luck with yours. And far be it for me to tell another woman how to do her job, but… it sounds like you need to tighten his leash a bit." She shrugged, and smiled. "Something to think about."

Aleksandra rose elegantly from her chair, and passed behind Reddington on her way around the table to place a gentle hand on the side of Yves' face. "Oh, and one more piece of advice," she said, still addressing Liz, though she didn't look at her. "Don't let him get any work done. I find plastic surgery on an otherwise attractive man so very… _gauche_." She leaned down and pressed a light kiss to the corner of Yves' mouth. "Thanks for picking up the check," she murmured against his cheek.

Both men followed her progress as Aleksandra moved gracefully between tables and exited the restaurant. "Well," Reddington sighed, raising an eyebrow. "Don't I feel inadequate."

…:::…

This half got rewritten SO many times! Goodness. I hope the final product satisfies. :) And I'm sorry it was so super short! I just felt that Aleksandra deserved her own chapter. ;)

Please read and review! And look for maybe one more update today?


	6. Max's Father

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: I'm a fangirl for a lot of things. I obviously adore The Blacklist, but I'm also in love with mythology (Greek, Norse, Celtic…basically anything I can get my hands on).

…:::…

Liz tumbled backwards out of the motel room door, grunting as she sprawled on the cement walkway. She managed to level her gun at her aggressor as he cleared the doorway, and her gunshots dropped him back heavily into the room. As she scrambled to her feet, three more shots rang out, and she threw herself back through the doorway, letting out a sigh of relief to find Dembe standing over two of the other Russians, and Reddington holding a gun on Golovkin.

"Everything okay?" Reddington asked Liz, not taking his eyes from the man in front of him.

"No, everything is not okay," Liz replied coldly, rolling her left shoulder but not allowing her pain to reach her voice. "That didn't have to go down like that. You should have waited until the team arrived."

Dembe carefully collected the basic handguns dropped by the three other Russians, while Reddington looked with dismay down at the large, unwieldy, and frankly ostentatious revolver Golovkin had brandished when their meeting had begun to go south. "That gun? Really?" he inquired, shaking his head critically. "Why _that_ gun? It practically takes an Olympic weight-lifter to fire one of those things unless it's been cocked, and who has time for that when it really counts? And _heavy_? Who are you trying to emulate with that thing? Clint Eastwood?" The gun had been twisted from his hands in the initial scuffle, and it had tumbled across the floor to rest against the door to the bathroom.

Golovkin glared but said nothing.

Reddington sighed. "Agent Keen, please do us all a favor and place Dirty Harry here in some restraints."

Liz crossed the small, dimly lit motel room, holstering her weapon and reaching for her handcuffs. She stood behind Golovkin and pulled his wrists around to his back. "Seriously, Red, next time, don't be such an antagonistic asshole when you're asking for information from Russian muscle—"

Liz's admonishment was cut short when Golovkin twisted his body, spinning behind Liz and producing a blade from his belt, which he held to her neck. Dembe immediately raised his weapon as Red took a short step forward and brought his gun up to eye level before freezing as the knife was pressed closer to Liz's throat, causing her to inhale sharply.

"Yes, don't be an asshole," Golovkin sneered at Reddington. "And you probably _should_ have waited for backup."

"Let her go," Red replied, his voice low and dangerous.

"No, I think she's my best chance of walking out of here, so I'll keep her for the time being. It looks like I picked the perfect shield, based on the twitch you have below your left eye right now," the Russian man taunted. "This one's not just a colleague, I think. She is…a friend?"

"I'm not sure you understand the situation, Arkady," Reddington growled. "Threaten me, I fight back. Threaten people who are important to me, I hurt you. Touch her… and they're not able to identify your body."

Golovkin laughed. "Ooh. Do you lie awake at night dreaming up scary things like that to say?" Golovkin took a step backwards toward the revolver that still lay on the ground by the bathroom door, pulling Liz with him. "The problem is that scary words like those are just that— _words_. Right now you're talking to a man who makes his living _doing_ those scary things, and _not_ talking about them—" Golovkin broke off and looked over his shoulder toward the bathroom as if he'd heard something, the knife at Liz's throat shifting away from her an inch.

Reddington made a quick sideways jerk with his head, while his eyes, hard and focused, remained on Golovkin's face. Liz let her knees buckle and spun to the side, dropping swiftly to the floor as Reddington pulled the trigger and Golovkin stumbled back and hit the ground behind Liz. She launched forward, scrambling toward Dembe, who helped her to her feet. She looked back at where she had stood just a moment ago as Reddington knelt over the still-moving body.

Golovkin gurgled, blood pooling on the floor as he tried to speak, the bullet wound to his neck making it near impossible.

Reddington sighed angrily and shook his head. "It's a little too late to try to be helpful now, Arkady. Besides, with a bullet in your throat, I can't understand a thing you're saying." Kneeling over the gasping man, Reddington picked up and closed the knife that had been held to Liz's neck, and inclined his head toward the revolver, two steps away. "And _still_ with the gun. You walk toward that silly thing instead of toward the door, when your hostage had a perfectly good gun you could have taken right out of her holster."

"Mmm—" Golovkin managed. "Mmm—"

Liz turned away, unable to watch the man's final labored breaths. Dembe returned to his earlier business of frisking the other two Russians where they'd fallen by the bed. Reddington watched as Golovkin stilled after managing a final, whispered word.

Liz's brow creased at the sound. "What? What did he just say?" She turned around to see Reddington, still crouched, stock-still over the dead man's body. He was staring up at a young boy, no more than nine years old who stood in the doorway to the bathroom. The boy held the discarded, massive revolver in his small hands, and was pointing it at Reddington's head.

Dembe immediately raised his gun and leveled it—with a wince—at the boy. Liz drew her weapon too, but did not raise it.

"Max. My dad said 'Max'." The boy glanced from his father's body on the ground to Reddington, to Dembe and his gun, and finally to Liz. Liz noted the boy's purple, bruised eye, and the fresh cut on his lower lip, and assumed the injuries were fresh, and that he'd been in the bathroom not because he was hiding, but because he'd been sent in there to clean himself up moments before they arrived.

"Would both of you please put your weapons away?" Reddington requested quietly, setting his gun down on the ground slowly, and pushing it a few feet away.

"That's—"

"I won't ask again, Lizzie," Reddington interrupted, his voice sill soft, his eyes still on the boy. "You too, Dembe. Thank you."

As every regulation and previous admonishment ran through her head simultaneously, Liz tucked her gun back into its holster as Dembe did the same.

"You shot my dad?" Max asked, looking fearfully but dry-eyed at Reddington, who furrowed his brow, but said nothing.

"Max?" Liz asked, stepping forward. "Your name's Max, isn't it? Max, sweetie, can you put that gun down?"

Max swung the huge gun in Liz's direction, and she stopped advancing. "Don't come over here!" he cried. "You have to stay over there."

"Max," Reddington called, shifting on his knees in front of the boy, his movement having the desired effect of returning Max's attention—and the direction of the gun—toward Reddington and away from Liz. "Max, do you know how to fire that gun?" he asked gently.

"People don't think I can do stuff… because I'm the youngest," Max said, looking scared as he glanced quickly from Dembe to Reddington. "But I could shoot you. I know how to use this." The boy clumsily cocked the hammer back, struggling to hold the large gun in the process. "I could kill the guy who killed my dad."

Liz's hand shot back to her weapon, but didn't draw it. Reddington threw a hand up in her direction, a palm demanding she wait.

"You're the youngest?" Reddington said, trying to keep the boy talking as the first sirens could be heard in the distance. "How many brothers and sisters do you have, Max?"

"Five," he answered, suspicious. "Why?" The gun shook slightly, and Max gripped it tightly with two hands, his shoulders high and uncomfortable.

"Have you ever heard the story of Zeus and the Titans?" Reddington asked.

"No," Max replied, not lowering the gun.

"Tell you what, Max, I'm going to stay in here with you, while my friends step out that door. Okay?" Reddington said. "You can keep me here, and I'll tell you the story of Zeus, but they need to leave."

"I'm not going anywh—" Liz started.

"Dembe." No additional instructions were necessary from Reddington, and Dembe moved smoothly to where Liz stood, opened his arms as if to herd her, and began backing her toward the door.

"No!" Max said, looking from Reddington to the pair at the door and back again. "You all have to stay here!"

"Okay," Reddington said hurriedly, nodding. "Let's just get back to the story, shall we? My friends will just wait where they are by the door." Reddington eased himself back from his kneeling position to sit on the floor, moving very slowly. The sirens were growing louder.

"I don't want to hear a story," Max argued, sniffing.

"Well, see, we have some time to burn, because those sirens mean that the FBI hostage negotiators are on their way. And they're going to want to talk to the man in charge in here. Which is obviously you," Reddington said honestly, indicating the gun the boy held. "But the FBI are slow, and sometimes stupid, so I'm afraid we'll get bored waiting for them to get here and get organized enough to call the phone in this room to talk to you. To see what you want."

Max looked slightly overwhelmed, but stood his ground.

"So why don't I tell you about the Titans, as long as we've got a few minutes with nothing else to do? Hmm?" Reddington waited expectantly for Max to nod, which he did after a moment. "Splendid. So these Titans… they were huge, powerful creatures in Greece," Reddington started. "Kronos was the biggest, and the most powerful. He was violent, and cruel, and no one felt like they could stand up to him. I'm sure you've met people in your life like that, haven't you, Max?"

Max, his reactions guileless and honest, glanced down at his father's body on the floor, and back up to Reddington's face. "Maybe," he allowed.

"Mm-hm. Kronos had six children, and he didn't treat any of them very well. He wasn't a good father," Reddington said, shaking his head.

"But he was still their dad," Max argued stubbornly.

"He was, yes. But that didn't excuse his actions," Reddington said carefully. "The Titans—after being monstrous and brutal for centuries—were eventually beaten, and sent to the underworld, and Kronos' six children took over. Do you know which one became king?"

"The oldest?" Max guessed, taking one hand off the gun to wipe at his nose with his sleeve.

"No. The youngest: Zeus. He ruled all the other gods, including his siblings. Because he was the best. Of all of them."

"And everybody knew the mean guy was his dad?"

"Yes. But nobody could punish him for that. He made his own choices."

"Was he a good king?" Max asked.

"He was great, and powerful, and terrible in his own right, when the situation called for it. Taking over the world and ruling it is a big job, and sometimes that calls for some tough decisions and some sacrifices. But he was _much_ better than his father."

Max gripped the gun and looked from Reddington to Dembe to Liz, and back to Red. "That was a dumb story."

"It wasn't my most detailed, no," Reddington agreed. "But you have to admit, you didn't give me much time to come up with one. I have lots of better stories… if you'll just put the gun down? Max? Let's separate you from your father and get you started on your own path."

"Why do you care about what happens to me?" the boy asked. "You don't even _know_ me."

"I don't think _anyone_ should have to pay for their parents' mistakes," Reddington said with conviction. "Including young men aiming guns at me that I don't even know."

Max was silent for a moment, wiping at his nose again with the sleeve of his hoodie. "How do you know I won't still come after you later? For killing my dad?"

Reddington nodded gravely. "That's a choice you'll have to make. And I would understand if you did."

"You'd let me get revenge?" Max said, his eyes narrowed disbelievingly.

"' _Let_ ' you? No. But if you take your time, and plan things out, and come after me when you're older… I won't blame you for doing so. If you still want to shoot me five or ten years from now, you _should_ come find me."

"Are you sure? What if you're already dead by then? You're pretty old."

"I am!" Reddington chuckled, nodding enthusiastically, before his expression melted into a more sober smile. "I am. Very old. And I want _you_ to have the chance to be this old one day." Reddington pointed toward the parking lot, where cars could be heard skidding to a stop. "But if those FBI agents come in here and find you still holding a gun on me, they're going to shoot you. And you won't get to decide if you want to come after me later. Come on. Hand me the gun."

Reddington extended his hand out to Max, who stared at it for a long moment before looking over at Liz. "Are those really FBI agents coming?"

"You bet," Liz nodded. She slowly reached for her badge, and extended it in Max's direction, as if offering it to him. "Let's you and me go for a walk and check 'em out."

Max nodded, looking down at the body of his father a final time, and extended his hand, offering the gun to Reddington, who took it gently, and—without looking away—swung his arm backwards to pass the weapon to Dembe, who stepped forward quickly to take it from him.

"He wasn't a good dad," Max said matter-of-factly. Reddington nodded approval at the boy as Liz quietly wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him toward the door. Max stopped and looked back at where Reddington still knelt on the floor. "But he was still my dad," he added before allowing Liz to lead him outside.

…:::…

"Who the hell taught you crisis negotiation?" Liz hissed at Red, joining him on the second floor walkway of the motel once Max had been secured in a car by the other agents. "You don't expound on the merits of revenge and pitch a criminal career to a potentially _homicidal kid with a gun_! You basically _instructed_ him to obsess about you and the death of his father." Liz turned away from Reddington and leaned forward, her hands on the railing of the walkway. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. "Oh… that could have gone _so_ wrong," she moaned.

Reddington put his hands in his pockets and watched the movements of the swarm of FBI agents in the parking lot below. "The boy's alive. That's what matters," he said, his voice tight.

"More 'the end justifies the means'?" Liz bit out with derision. "Are you starting to repeat your take-home messages for me now? Or was the Zeus and Kronos myth meant for me? Commentary on my biological father? Or are you trying to drop hints about me eventually getting revenge on you for Sam?"

Reddington turned to face Liz. "No. Nothing I said to that boy was aimed at anyone but him." He looked at her with disappointment tinged with anger. "You need me to spin this, so you can have something, too? I've been trying to talk to you for _days_ now. Trying to apologize, or the very least _explain_ , but you've had _none_ of it. You've been childish and insulting, and now, after talking down a boy who justifiably wanted to _shoot_ me—" Reddington broke off and shook his head. "Violent, emotional pre-teens are something I've had very limited prior experience with, and that, in there, was a test I was frankly _terrified_ I would fail—and _now_ you're coming to me for your treat? The next piece of the puzzle you've forced me to create? All right, here it is. Are you listening?" Reddington took a step toward Liz, stopping inches from her, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's not always _all about you_. You are _not_ the epicenter of the universe. You may be the epicenter of _my_ universe, but there are people and situations that I have to occasionally consider apart from you." Reddington shook his head, speaking quickly. "After everything you've been through in the last two years, I understand why you tend to be acutely aware of how things affect _your_ life, but you need to start paying more attention to what's happening around you, and how others might be affected, too." Reddington finally took a step back, and lowered his voice before continuing. "It helps to keep things in perspective."

Liz stood very still, her cheeks burning from Red's admonishment. She wanted to argue, to defend herself, but found no words with which to do so.

Red's voice was soft and slightly sad as he turned away, adding over his shoulder, "You may be the key to finding the Fulcrum… but the information it contains protects a great number of people. Many more than just Elizabeth Keen."

Liz's eyes followed him as he walked down the stairs and over to the car where Dembe waited, and sighed as she watched the pair drive away.

…:::…

Okay. We need some apologies. Because everybody's mad at everyone else now, and we can't have that.

And whoa... this chapter got long. And is COMPLETELY different than the first draft, which saw them all on a bridge, among other differences... I think everything here finally works much better. But it took me all week to fix the kinks. Please let me know if there are continuity errors: sometimes when things get rewritten too many times, elements of previous versions get overlooked and make it into the final draft by accident.

Review! Review! Review! Please! Please! Please! :)


	7. The Hooded Girl

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: My sincere apologies to anyone who tried to read this when I first published it! I wrote this on a plane in a different program than I usually use, and the formatting went completely haywire when I cut and pasted into the Doc Manager.

…:::...

Liz sat quietly in the back seat of the car, next to Reddington. They'd been waiting, parked along a street of mixed shops and apartments for almost twenty minutes, and no-one in the car had uttered a word. Liz was bored, and tired, and desperately wanted to complain about the amount of time they had spent in silence so far on this trip, but after the castigation she'd received from Reddington last week, she had attempted to be more civil with him. Their interactions had been strained since then, to say the least, but after Golovkin died without providing them with the next piece of their puzzle, there hadn't been much to do. The team had been twiddling their thumbs for days when Reddington finally called Liz earlier in the afternoon and requested she make herself available by six that evening. Dembe would pick her up. She asked him if he'd made some progress on the case, but he'd ignored her questions, refusing to explain if this was a new lead, and instead repeated the time and place Dembe would be expecting her.

It was now dark, and she watched Reddington stare out his window, his face lit strangely in the glow of the street lamps. She had gotten into the car fully expecting either another thinly veiled lesson, most likely relating to her recent behavior, or a frank paraphrasing of the admonishment at the motel. She'd gotten neither. Dembe had driven in his usual silence, and Reddington had remained just as quiet. Now she watched him openly, having realized soon after they stopped that he was paying little-to-no attention to her, and instead seemed to have his full concentration directed at a specific point somewhere down the block along which they were parked. Liz wondered idly if he was ignoring her as a form of punishment, but dismissed the thought quickly as too petty of a response for Reddington.

A slight twitch of one eye changed his features momentarily, before his face returned to complete composure. "Lizzie," Reddington began, finally breaking the silence but not changing the direction of his gaze to look at her. "Please join Dembe in the front seat."

Liz's brow creased. "I'm sorry… was—"

"Now," Reddington interrupted her, his voice neither gentle nor cruel.

Perplexed, but intent on continuing to allow him some latitude, Liz frowned and exited the car, walking around the back to the front passenger seat. As she climbed in, Dembe was nodding at Reddington in the rearview mirror, and when her door closed with a soft thump, Dembe started the engine and pulled slowly away from the curb. After a half block, he stopped the car, double parked in front of a coffee shop, and calmly got out, leaving the sedan running. Liz watched as he approached a woman on the sidewalk. She was wearing a hooded jacket, and Dembe crossed in front of her to get her attention, though Liz couldn't hear what he said from inside the car.

"I need a favor from you." Reddington's voice drifted forward from behind Liz.

"And what might that be?" Liz replied, still watching Dembe and the woman.

"When Dembe and the girl get in this car, I'd rather you not say a word until she leaves. Can you do that?"

Liz frowned. "I don't understand. Who is sh-"

"Can you do that?" Red interrupted firmly. "For me. Can you do that? Not a word."

Liz swallowed before nodding. "Yes, I can do that."

The hooded woman on the street suddenly stepped to the side as if she were about to walk away, but Dembe extended a hand, offering her an envelope. The woman, whose back was still to Liz, hesitated before taking and opening it. As soon as she did, she took a quick step back from Dembe and he held up his hands, as if proving he would not hurt her, before gesturing to the car and looking in their direction. The woman spun quickly to follow the direction of Dembe's gaze, and after a moment's pause, strode purposefully toward them. She was younger than Liz had expected her to be. Reddington lowered his window.

"What is this? How do you have this?" the young woman demanded angrily, brandishing the paper in her hand.

Reddington calmly passed a second sheet of folded paper through the open window, and when it was quickly snatched from his hands to be read, he cleared his throat. "There's more. Let us give you a ride home, and I'll hand you the rest when we get to your apartment." With her head turned in the front seat, Liz could see the young woman's face through the window, but not Red's.

After a moment the hooded girl narrowed her eyes, set her jaw, and allowed Dembe to escort her around to the other side of the car and open her door for her. She got in, and pushed the hood from her head, shaking out her dark hair as she did so. Dembe got into the car and pulled out on to the street.

With better proximity, Liz was able to study the woman, who was really more of a girl. They appeared close to the same age, with similarly dark hair, though Liz had none of her curl. Her long face was set in a hard, angry expression, and she shifted her bag on her lap as she snapped, "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm not going to hurt you," Reddington began calmly.

"Damn straight you're not," the young woman replied immediately, smoothly pulling a gun from her bag and resting it on her thigh, aimed at Reddington.

Liz's hand flew to her weapon, and in a split second she had it leveled at the woman in the back seat. "Drop the gun," she demanded.

Before the other woman could respond, Reddington's hand shot forward and wrenched the gun from Liz's grasp. He dismantled the weapon quickly, dropping the pieces at his feet. He lowered his window and tossed the amunition out into the cold as they sped along the street.

"What do you think you're-" Liz began, spinning to look out her window as if she expected to be able to pick out the shape of her magazine on the ground behind them in the dark.

"Not a word," Reddington reminded Liz firmly, his eyes still on the girl seated next to him. Addressing her, he went on, "As I said, I'm not going to hurt you, and I won't let anyone else, either. You can continue to point that at me for the duration of this ride, though, if it makes you feel better."

"It does," she said matter-of-factly.

There was a long silence, during which the girl seemed to be waiting for Reddington to speak, while he seemed to be in no particular hurry to do so. Finally Reddington tilted his head with a slight smile and said, "I have a daughter. When she was very little, I would tell her stories. She loved to listen to me talk... I could tell her just about anything-read the newspaper, recite Shakespeare-it didn't matter. I think she just liked the sound of my voice." Reddington paused, as if waiting for something, but shook his head after a moment, and continued. "But there was one story she loved in particular. I had an encyclopedia of insects, and one day I found her crouched on the floor with the book, completely enthralled by a picture of the Orchid Mantis. A beautiful creature; native to south Asia. Looks just like a pink orchid flower.

"The brilliance of this particular bug, I'd always tell her, was that it could hide while still being seen. Unlike other animals that blend and try to disappear into their surroundings for camoflage, the Orchid Mantis pretends to be an entirely different, entirely visible thing. It's a very elegant solution. The problem is... to a trained eye, once you know what you're looking for, they're relatively easy to spot."

Reddington smiled. "Now, she was much too young to ever understand any of this. But I'd still tell her about the way it caught its food, that it was bigger and stronger than its male counterparts, and the fact that it could change its coloring from light to dark as necessary." Reddington's eyes slid from the girl's face to her dark, curly hair, and he sighed. "I think she just liked the idea of a beautiful pink flower bug."

"What does this have to do with me?" she asked.

The muscles in Reddington's jaw clenched briefly. "It's time for you to move on," he said after a moment. "If I found you, others are not far behind me. If one knows what to look for, you've become easy to find."

"How _did_ you find me?" the girl asked. "And why were you looking for me at all?"

"Jason has started using again. And dealing. Drug addicts talk, and stories make their way very quickly through certain circles," Reddington explained, his face impassive.

"No," the girl said with confidence, shaking her head dismissively. "Jason hasn't sold anything in over five years, and he's been clean almost as long. He's a good man now. He has a good job, he goes to meetings... This year he even became a sponsor. I'm actually really proud of him, and there's no way that he's-"

"I'm aware that's the story he's told you," Reddington replied gravely. Reaching into the seat back pocket in front of him, he withdrew several large photographs and passed them across the back seat. "These were taken last Sunday. I'm sure you recognize the red flannel shirt he's wearing? It was a recent gift, was it not? From you?"

As she stared at the photographs, the young woman seemed to forget about her weapon entirely, laying it down in her lap and reaching for the pictures Red held. Her face fell, and Liz felt a rush of empathy for the girl.

Reddington watched in silence for a long moment before speaking up again, his voice quiet. "He's not home right now. I suggest you pack what you can in the next hour, and go. Don't leave a note. Don't ever contact him again."

The car slowed to a stop along the small, one-way street, as Dembe brought the driver's side of the car up to the curb in front of an apartment building. The girl looked up from the photographs and realized where they were.

"You know my address," she said in a low voice.

"Pack just what you need," Reddington repeated, "and go."

The young woman tilted her head to the side and squinted at Red. "Why are you doing this?"

Reddington ignored her question. "I have another piece of advice for you, before you leave." He studied the girl's face as if he was trying to memorize it before continuing earnestly, "The next time someone approaches you with information like this, don't bother threatening them with that gun. And for God's sake don't get in a car with anyone. Just shoot them. You shoot them, and you run in the other direction and don't look back. Do you understand me?"

The curious look on the girl's face broke momentarily as she gave a nervous laugh, "Gunning people down in the street isn't—"

Reddington shook his head, unwilling to entertain her arguments. "Jennifer—" he interrupted sternly, but stopped immediately at the look on her face. She looked stunned, and horrified. Liz opened her mouth but bit back her words, clenching her teeth, her eyes skipping quickly between the two faces in the back seat.

After a long moment, the girl was unable to maintain eye contact anymore, and her gaze slipped to the side, her eyes unfocused, as if looking very far away. She sat for another beat before turning to fumble with the door handle. She flung the door open and jumped from the car, still holding the photographs in one hand. Once she was across the sidewalk, at the foot of the stairs to her building, she turned back to look at Reddington. The car door was still open wide, and he was leaning across the backseat on one hand, watching her retreat. The girl's expression melted from anger to a tired sort of sadness. She shook her head as if to reprimand Reddington for ever speaking to her at all.

Reddington dropped his eyes and nodded, accepting the rebuke. He looked back up after a moment to submit a final request. "Be careful," he said with a miserable smile.

Without another word, the girl turned away slowly and walked up the stairs to her door, slipped the key into the lock, and disappeared inside without a backward glance.

Reddington looked down at the upholstery of the empty seat next to him. Dembe quietly exited the car long enough to close the back door, before slipping back behind the wheel and pulling away from the curb.

Liz twisted around in her seat as much as possible without releasing her belt, and murmured, "Red—"

"You've done almost exactly as I asked so far tonight," Red interrupted softly, turning his head to look out the window. "But I'd appreciate silence for just a bit longer, please."

Liz's face was anguished as she nodded.

"Thank you," Red said, his voice tight.

Liz turned back around in her seat, and said nothing.

...:::...

You know you're in trouble when you're giving YOURSELF the Feels as you write. No joke, I feel like my lungs hurt right now. Sorry this one was so monstrously sad without any humor!.

Jennifer will be addressed more in the next chapter! Hold on for a few days, okay?

Let me know what you think, people…


	8. Marie Felix, the Publisher

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: This is the THIRD Chapter 8 I've written. One of the other ones might get retooled and made into a stand-alone, but HOLY WRITERS BLOCK, BATMAN. Getting back on track after Chapter 7 was always going to be tough, but then 2x14 aired, and I got lost in canon feels so deep that I couldn't find my way back to this story. So… my apologies for the delay.

…:::…

The huge man hauled Liz awkwardly toward a thick support beam in the center of the room, and when she managed to get enough leverage to drive her knee into his crotch, he responded by backhanding her so hard Liz was certain she lost consciousness for at least a few seconds while she was sprawled on the floor. He had her arms around the darkly painted pole and in handcuffs before the cobwebs cleared.

Reddington had been dragged in behind her by another two men, barely conscious, and dumped unceremoniously on the floor by another support beam, about fifteen feet from Liz. She briefly looked around at the basement of the bookstore, trying to source an escape route, but found her attention immediately brought back to Reddington as his hands were similarly cuffed around his beam, and the men backed away from him.

Marie Felix made her way down the stairs slowly, her beige shoes making very little sound on the wooden boards, and her small hand relying on the handrail for balance. As she stepped closer to the single bare bulb in the center of the space, Liz found herself thinking this little old woman was someone she'd offer to carry groceries for, not someone she'd expect to be one of the top suppliers of international secrets and political information.

Marie's carefully arranged white hair shone in the light, and she made a clucking noise in her throat. "Why don't we address your questions down here, shall we? I do apologize for all this violence, but my boys are quite protective of me," she began, clasping her hands in front of herself. "I'm very lucky to have such devoted grandsons," she added, smiling adoringly at the man closest to her and patting his forearm. "I used to run this bookstore all by myself, but with the world in the state that it is these days, and at my age, you just never know… Such crime…hooligans…" She trailed off with a huff before remembering her point. "Ah, yes, back to it. Your questions. I assume you're both responsible for the loss of dear Mr. Golovkin, considering the queries you had for me a minute ago up in the shop?" Marie shook her head, and blinked rapidly behind her thick glasses. "Such a shame. Now there was a good family man. Six children. Lovely wife. I just can't imagine…can't imagine…"

"He beat his children," Liz corrected the old woman, scowling. "I'd hardly call him a 'good family man'."

Marie nodded gravely. "Youngsters these days do need a few lashes every now and then," she agreed. "What with the internet and television filling their heads with pictures of fornication and sanctifying laziness."

Liz didn't respond, but continued to glower up at her captors. Reddington remained motionless on the floor, sprawled on his side, his back towards her. She wished she could see his face.

Marie tottered closer to Liz, and peered down at her. "I understand the man over there is Mr. Raymond Reddington, is that correct?" she asked politely.

Liz said nothing.

"Dear, you should show enough respect for your elders to answer them when they ask you a question," Marie scolded, stepping back. One of her grandsons stepped forward and Liz's head snapped to the side with a crack that left her cheek numb for several seconds before the pain hit her. She let out several heavy breaths before nodding.

"Yes, I thought as much," Marie nodded. "I do regret the passing of Mr. Golovkin, but if Mr. Reddington's reputation is anything to go by, I'm sure he will be able to supply me with enough information to make up for the loss." Marie smiled sweetly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, young lady, I need to telephone a gentleman or two about some business opportunities." She turned and began slowly making her way methodically up the stairs again. "If you and Mr. Reddington would be good enough to wait here until I return…?" she called over her shoulder, as if her two captives had a choice in the matter. Two of the men followed their grandmother up the stairs, while the third remained standing near Reddington.

As soon as the door above them clicked shut, the man gave a swift kick to Reddington's middle. Liz flinched at the sight, and the accompanying ragged cough that was barely audible made her strain at her handcuffs.

"You know, you really shouldn't kick a man when he's down," Liz warned, her voice hard.

The man looked up at her, his foot drawn back for another strike. "Why?" he sneered. "Because it's not _'gentlemanly'_?"

"No," Liz said, inclining her head toward where Reddington lay. "Because _that_ man _always_ gets back up again. And when he does…" Liz shook her head slowly, "you're _screwed_."

There was a pause as the man held Liz's gaze before he gave another vicious kick to Reddington's abdomen. Liz managed not to flinch this time, but her stomach twisted horribly. The man drew his foot back yet again, but stopped when the door above them creaked open, and one of his brothers called down to him.

"Hey! Get up here."

The man stepped away from Reddington. "Why?" he complained.

"Don't talk back, just get up here," came the answer.

The man huffed, and threw a glare over his shoulder at Liz before obediently starting up the stairs.

When the door clicked shut again, Liz heard the heavy sound of the deadbolt being thrown. "Red?" she asked cautiously. "Red, please say something if you're conscious."

With a groan, Reddington raised himself up on one elbow before dropping back down onto his shoulder with a muffled gasp.

"He broke a few ribs?" Liz guessed, grimacing.

"Most likely," Reddington ground out. With painful effort, he rolled onto his other side, and hauled himself up to a sitting position. He leaned gingerly against the support beam he was handcuffed to with a wince. When he finally looked up at where Liz sat, he flinched, taking in the bruising on both sides of her face.

"Ooh, that bad already, huh?" she asked with a smile that hurt.

Reddington raised an eyebrow and bobbed his head. "You've looked better, Lizzie."

Liz nodded in agreement. "Well, I think it's time for a story," she announced, dropping her head forward and moving her hands around the beam to fumble with her mussed hair.

Reddington sighed. "Not now, Lizzie. I don't have any fables that parallel getting our asses handed to us by one of the Golden Girls and her army of grandsons… And besides, Dembe has a high index of suspicion that when I'm gone longer than I initially quote, it's due to something going awry. We don't have to last too long in here before he calls in the cavalry."

Liz's voice drifted up from her chest, muffled, as she continued to work with her hair. "Well, we're going to have a little competition. Who can complete their task first?" She lifted her head with a grim, but triumphant smile, holding up a bobby pin. "Can you tell me a story before I can get us both free of our handcuffs?"

…:::…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Sorry I had to cut this one in half! Like I said, "Chapter 8" is now synonymous with "Most Infuriatingly Difficult Thing To Complete". But I'm on a good path now, so you should get the second half of this in a timely fashion. :)

Please take time to review! Reviews = LIFE!


	9. Marie Felix, the Publisher: Conclusion

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: I make reference to the apartment Red offered Liz in 2x13 here. I know I've split a bit from canon timeline events, but that's what's going on. Also? This is an alternate version of Liz admitting she has the Fulcrum. So there's that, too. Sorry about the delay in updates! I got a little frustrated with this fic because it was being petulant, and wouldn't cooperate, and we had some tense words.

Gestalt: "Are you scolding me?"

LB: "Yes, I'm scolding you."

Gestalt: "What are you going to do, ground me? Take away my phone privileges?"

LB: "No, just not update you for several weeks."

 *****Also: Becca!** This is the only way I know to respond to your reviews! You've been reading and reviewing _every chapter_ as a guest, and I appreciate it SO MUCH! And yes, you get All The Points for knowing about gestalt and the Milgram experiment and such! :D Thank you SO MUCH for all the kind words, and as for your question about Ch 5, I assume the "work" Red had done (mentioned in General Ludd) was some kind of graft or patch-up on the burn scars on his back. He doesn't look like he's had anything else done: he's aging appropriately and gracefully, and doesn't appear pinched or tucked. If I was Aleksandra I wouldn't think Red had had any work done, just seeing his face. Again: a HUGE thank you! I appreciate you reading and reviewing each chapter individually! :)

…:::…

Liz lifted her head up to look at Reddington with a grim but triumphant smile, holding up a bobby pin. "Can you tell me a story before I can get us both free of our handcuffs?" she challenged.

Reddington's lips quirked in a hint of a smile. "Your timing is abysmal, Lizzie. Why don't you ever ask me to tell you a story when breathing doesn't hurt, and I don't have a head wound?" he asked, gingerly touching a nasty-looking cut high on his forehead. He winced, and brought his fingers down to inspect the smear of blood on them.

Liz leaned her shoulder into the beam in order to bring her wrists around far enough that she could see the handcuff mechanism. It was decidedly more complex than the pair of cuffs Reddington had used on her at Ernie Malcolm's, and her right hand ached from the punch she'd managed to land on the jaw of one of their attackers upstairs when things had first gone south.

When Reddington failed to say anything for a long moment, Liz prompted him. "Tell me about Jennifer," Liz suggested in a quiet voice, studying her task closely.

"That subject is not open for discussion," he replied flatly.

"If you didn't want me to know anything about her, you wouldn't have asked me to be in that car."

"If you understood why I invited you into the car, you wouldn't ask me anything else about her."

Liz looked up at the man bound across from her. "Enlighten me."

Reddington clenched his jaw and remained resolutely silent.

Liz shrugged and set the bobby pin down, shifting her position and resting her cheek against the beam. "I can wait," she said.

Reddington let out an aggravated breath, and looked away. "Elizabeth—"

"You use my full name like it's intimidating," she said. "It's not."

He turned back to glare at her. "You're being infuriatingly stubborn."

"I guess you've been rubbing off on me," she countered.

They held each other's stare for another beat. Reddington caved first, scowling down at the concrete floor and waving an annoyed hand at Liz, indicating that she should continue. Liz waited until he began speaking to pick up the bobby pin from the floor.

"I invited you to come with me because I wanted to… offer you something."

"You try to give me things all the time, Red," Liz said, not looking up from her task. "You suggest dresses, you offer me trips to exotic places, expensive bottles of wine… _apartments_ …" she added with emphasis.

"I can _buy_ almost anything, Lizzie. But I don't have very much that's… _personal_ … anymore. The life I've lived grants me many luxuries, but it doesn't afford me the luxury of keepsakes. If I want to share a piece of…" Reddington trailed off and shook his head. "I don't have much to choose from. I don't have many personal things to give."

Liz realized she'd stopped working on her handcuffs at some point, and was staring at Reddington. He looked pointedly at her hands, and she quickly dropped her eyes and resumed her task. "That still doesn't explain why you wanted to give me something in the first place."

Reddington sighed and shifted uncomfortably on the concrete floor. "Consider it a substitution. A small piece of information about _my_ past, since I'm unable to give you much information about yours. I know my continued concealment of certain things disappoints you, but that's the way it has to be, until…" Red worked his jaw, trying to find the right words to complete his sentence. "For now," he finished.

"You are a master at answering a question without actually answering it," Liz said, dutifully working at the lock. She growled in frustration—partly at Red, and partly at the handcuffs—and switched the bobby pin to a different angle.

"Having trouble?" Reddington asked. His side ached, and there was no way to sit on the floor in an awkward embrace with a pole that did not exacerbate the pain he felt with each breath. He tried to breathe more shallowly.

"Yours were easier," Liz admitted. "I had one hand completely free, and the mechanism was simpler. And I didn't have a pole in my way," she growled through gritted teeth, smacking one cuff against the beam between her arms in frustration. She sighed and took a deep breath, her eyes closed. She'd always found this task easier when the stakes weren't high. "This is going to take me a minute longer. So you can continue trying to answer my question," she added pointedly.

Reddington swallowed and pursed his lips. He leaned his head against his beam and closed his eyes. "I've tried to apologize several times in the last few weeks. For many things. You were… understandably upset… after the hypnosis, but you denied me any chance to explain. I figured if I—"

With a metallic rattle, Liz freed her left wrist from its restraint, and unwound her arms from the beam. She ran the few steps over to Red and knelt down in front of him. He raised his wrists, silently offering them to her, and she wrapped her left hand around his right one. Her grip stabilized the cuff, but she didn't start work on the lock. Reddington looked up at her, confused by her pause, and found her staring earnestly at him.

"You said you want to apologize. And I know I haven't made that easy recently. But I'm willing to listen now." Liz's fingers tightened minutely around his wrist. "Apologize for what?"

Reddington took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if he was trying to decide how to proceed. Liz moved her thumb along the inside of his wrist where she gripped it, just a fraction, and he broke eye contact to stare down at their hands.

"Do you know where the word 'apology' derives from?" Reddington asked, his voice low and quiet.

Liz sighed and shook her head. " _There's_ the story," she murmured. "Knew we couldn't have an actual conversation." She dropped her gaze to the handcuff, and began to work the lock.

Reddington tilted his head, and rested his temple on the cool beam, watching the fine movements of Liz's fingers as she manipulated the pin in the mechanism. "From the Greek; ' _apologia_ ' actually means a speech made in defense of something. It's an attempt to explain the motivation behind one's actions. Plato's _The Apology_ was written about the speech Socrates made in his own defense at trial when he was brought up on charges of corrupting the youth of Athens."

"Mmm. I've read it." Liz shifted her weight off her feet, sweeping them to the side and dropping down to sit on the concrete slightly closer to Red, without looking up from her task.

He looked up at her, surprised and impressed. "You have?"

"I took a lot of philosophy classes in college as a psychology and behavioral science major," Liz said distractedly.

"Of course you did."

"So the point of this story is that you're not going to say you're remorseful, or admit that anything you did was wrong? You want to ' _apologize_ ', and by that you actually mean ' _defend your actions'_?" Liz looked up from Reddington's wrist, annoyed, but stopped talking when she found his eyes studying her jaw sadly. "Hey." Liz snapped her fingers, once, and his eyes flicked up to hers. "I bet your ribs look worse than my face," she theorized.

"As much as I'd love to compare war wounds with you, Lizzie, maybe some other time? You're having more trouble with this set than Houdini had with his during his Mirror Escape." Reddington lifted his wrists a few inches to emphasize his point, and Liz caught at him, gripping the base of his hand more firmly

"You waving your arms around is not helping matters," she scolded, bringing his hands down and inching toward him so she could rest the backs of his hands in her lap.

"You've read Plato… Do you know anything about Houdini?" Reddington asked.

Liz fought the urge to roll her eyes. "Red, this is getting ridiculous. You're starting new stories before you complete the last one. You were talking about apologies," she reminded him, returning her focus to the handcuffs.

"I can't say that I'm truly 'sorry' for keeping things from you, Lizzie," Reddington admitted. "I can defend my reasons for doing so, but I think you understand my position better than you let on. Would say _you're_ 'sorry' for keeping the Fulcrum from me? Or would you rather defend your decision not to hand it over?" Liz paused in her actions momentarily before continuing, not looking up from her task. "I know you have it. I know you've been keeping it from me," Reddington said, his voice low, but not unkind.

Liz didn't respond.

Reddington nodded. "Any plans or time frame for when you might be willing to part with it?" he asked.

"Not yet," was all she allowed.

"The longer you have it, the more danger you're in," he warned.

"So you've said. But you won't tell me what it is. So how do I know that this danger is as real and imminent as you say it is?"

"Because I'm the one telling you." Reddington paused and let his eyes rove over Liz's face freely, feeling protected by the fact that her concentration was focused entirely on picking the handcuff lock. "And I don't lie to you."

Liz, frustrated, stopped working again to look up at Reddington, meeting his eyes. He blew a harsh breath out and opened his mouth in protest over her constant pauses. He frowned at her and pointedly lifted his wrists to her eye level, which she grabbed without looking at them, and pulled down to hold tightly in her lap again, making her point that she had things to say before she planned on continuing her task. "No, maybe you don't. But if you were to describe the world we live in to me for the first time, with your usual colorful descriptions and flowery prose, you'd cover everything in great detail about six of the continents, and you'd omit Asia entirely. You'd leave out information regarding almost twenty million square miles and four billion people. A third of the Earth's wealth. Tell me how that paints a fair picture? How does that prepare me to function in our world? You may not lie, but you omit so much that you're sure as _hell_ not telling the _truth_."

"Careful, Lizzie. Telling stories like that to drive home your point makes you sound like me." He cocked one eyebrow. "Maybe you're right and I _am_ rubbing off on you."

"That wasn't a story, that was an analogy," she argued.

"Splitting hairs, Lizzie. Now, please…" He nodded at their hands in her lap.

"She dyed her hair, didn't she? She has light hair. Blonde, like you. But she dyes it almost black. Like your wife's," Liz pushed.

Reddington looked away. "Let's go back to talking about Asia."

"We _are_ talking about Asia. Asia's the part of the world you won't tell me about."

"Have you ever been to one of the ancient Buddhist temples in Japan, Lizzie? They—"

"You know I haven't," Liz interrupted. "How long have you known where Jennifer was?"

Reddington sighed in frustration, which made his side hitch with pain, and glanced back at Liz wearily. "Do we really have to talk about this right now?"

"I appreciate that you were willing to let me see that part of you… of your life… in the car with your daughter," she said evenly, looking him in the eye. "But you're still completely unwilling to talk to me. To tell me anything. About her, about you, about me. You say you keep things from me for my own good, but I'd much rather be hurt with the truth than comforted by a lie."

"But that's just it. I don't lie to you, but I'm also _loathe to cause you pain_ , _Lizzie_. If the truth is painful, and I won't lie, then silence is my best alternative," he said, his eyes sad and honest.

"Your silence hurts, too, Red," Liz explained. "You want to work with me; you'll _only_ work with the FBI if it's through me… But keeping things from me puts me at _such_ a disadvantage. Think how much more effective I could be if I was playing with the full deck; if you trusted me enough—if you _respected_ me enough—to bring me in on what actually goes on. The longer you keep me bound and blindfolded when it comes to our cases or my past, the bigger a wedge you—" Liz stopped abruptly, sighed, and dropped her gaze. "Nevermind," she mumbled, and went back to work.

Silence reigned for several minutes, until, with a click, Liz released Reddington's left cuff, and pushed back up off the floor. She offered him a hand, and he took it, allowing her to help him stand.

"Next problem: getting out of the basement," Liz said matter-of-factly.

...:::...

Again, sorry for the delay in new chapters here. I'm working my way back into Gestalt after Just Thought You Should Know drained all my creativity stores out of me. Also? I needed to think of some more stories for Red to tell. Now I've got a bunch of them. :)

Reviews make me grin! :D


	10. Frederick Verne

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: Chapter 10, in which I decide to lighten up a bit...and then darken right back down. :) Hope this gives you some smiles before I go back to smacking them around as usual. I don't usually write crack-fic-type levity, but the beginning of this chapter is probably the closest I think I'd ever get. ;) Also, thank you again to all the wonderful reviewers! Lovelovelovelove to you all…

…:::…

Their freedom had been short-lived. Just as they began looking around the dark space for an alternate exit that did not involve the deadbolt and armed gang of grandsons upstairs, the door they were avoiding swung open and a well-dressed man in a three piece suit and a fedora started down the stairs, followed by a muscular Asian man in dark, utilitarian clothing. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he palmed his hat off his head and passed it to his associate, revealing short salt-and-pepper hair.

" _Oh, God, there's two of you_ ," Liz said, her voice barely above a whisper, and tinged with a sarcastic horror.

As soon as Reddington saw who it was, his shoulders squared, and he stood slightly taller. Liz knew the confident posture must be uncomfortable because of his ribs, but his face didn't show it.

"Frederick! Fancy meeting you here," Reddington said jovially. He didn't approach the man, and didn't move to shake his hand, but instead angled his head toward Liz with a practiced smile. "Elizabeth Keen, allow me to introduce Frederick Verne. Frederick, this is my associate, Elizabeth Keen."

"It _has_ been awhile, hasn't it, Red?" Verne turned toward Liz, and extended his hand, which she took warily after taking a short step forward, the handcuffs still dangling from her right wrist. He lifted her hand to his lips, placing a light kiss on her bruised knuckles, and smiled over the back of her hand at her. "Elizabeth Keen? My pleasure."

Liz cut her eyes toward Reddington, who—for a brief moment—looked for all the world like he would enjoy nothing more than to gut the other man where he stood. In a flash, the expression was gone, and as Verne turned back toward his old acquaintance, Reddington's face spread into a smile once more.

"Frederick, where _did_ you get that tie?" he asked pleasantly.

Verne touched his fingers proudly to the silk knot as his throat. "You like it?" he asked, smugly.

"No, it's hideous," Reddington replied, shaking his head with a derisive laugh. "I want to make sure I avoid the retailer at all costs. It makes you look like a used car salesman from Oklahoma. Now, what can I do for you tonight, here in the lovely Mrs. Felix's basement?"

Verne gave a tight lipped smile and narrowed his eyes. "I was just stopping in to pick up an order from Marie, and imagine my surprise and delight when she tells me she's got you locked up down here. Now you can't tell me you don't believe in fate when things like this happen to us, Red."

"Oh, I believe in fate," Reddington agreed. "I would just characterize this more as 'karma's a bitch'." He turned to Liz and shook his head, lamenting, "I _knew_ I should have left a bigger tip at that Mongolian restaurant I went to last week."

Verne rocked back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. "So, Red. I'm going to need my money back."

"And what money would that be?" Red inquired flatly.

"You have a fabulous memory, if mine serves me correctly, and besides, Australia was _not_ that long ago. You probably remember the exact dollar amount." Verne smiled. "Which I'm going to need doubled, and transferred into one of my accounts."

"Doubled?" Reddington repeated, his eyebrows raised.

"Doubled," Verne confirmed. He turned to Liz. "Has he ever told you about our adventure along the Great Barrier Reef?" Liz's slightly open mouth and confused expression answered for her. "There's an amazing amount of diamonds in Australia—not jewelry quality, but quite useful for industrial purposes—and I was looking into buying some land to mine. I had Red put me in contact with real estate tycoons, surveyors, and geologists, and we all took a yacht out one day to discuss details and exact prices… I had quite a bit of cash on hand as a good faith payment, and before the end of the afternoon the small speedboat, all my cash, Raymond Reddington, _and my wife_ had all mysteriously gone missing."

Reddington chuckled. "How _is_ Beth?"

Liz's face twisted at the name. "Oh, you've _got to be joking_ ," she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

Both men looked at her, confused, before Verne clucked his tongue and said, "She left me about a year later, but I think you knew that."

"I did, yes," Reddington admitted. "But what I _didn't_ know is that she apparently had your money with her when we sped away in that _glorious_ little boat."

"You're trying to tell me _you_ didn't take my money, _my wife_ did?" Verne asked suspiciously.

"Well, _I_ certainly didn't make off with four million dollars that day. I think I would have noticed."

Verne shook his head, his eyes narrowed. "Whoever took it, you're on the hook for it now, Red. And really, you should count yourself lucky that I'm a big enough man that I don't feel the need to tack on an extra charge for the whole 'wife' thing."

"Frederick, really, you know what she was like." Reddington shook his head. "She was the one who loaded up that boat and asked me to join her, not the other way around."

"Maybe, but you didn't have to join her," Verne replied icily.

"Oh, I know you remember the bikini she was wearing that day—" Reddington turned from Verne to Liz, his eyes almost comically wide. "—I _had_ to join her."

"Four million dollars," Liz interrupted. "Doubled. So, eight million? I don't foresee that being a problem at all." Verne turned to look at her as well. She looked down at her bare left wrist as if checking the watch she didn't wear. "But it's after six, and no physical bank is open for this large of a transfer, and we know the Felix family is too old-school to have an iPad capable of an encrypted transaction sitting around in this place, so…" She stepped toward the stairs slowly. "Why don't we all go in search of a laptop, move some funds, and everyone can go home happy? Hmm?"

Verne's associate blocked her path up the stairs, his face stern.

"Tell you what," Verne said, walking lazily toward Liz and catching the dangling half of her handcuffs. "Let's take care of all of this tomorrow morning, shall we? We'll meet back here at, say, ten o'oclock; I detest getting up any earlier than nine." He led Liz toward Reddington with a gentle tug, and clamped her free cuff around his left wrist. "I'll bring the laptop," Verne pulled Liz around the column Reddington had been secured to earlier, and quickly attached Red's free cuff to Liz's other wrist. He stepped back to admire his handiwork: they were now back to back, with the column between them.

"I take it I'm spending the night here?" Reddington asked, narrowing his eyes at Verne.

"Yes. I want to make sure you _are_ where you _say_ you'll be at the agreed-upon time, and after that mess in Australia I just don't have much faith left in your ability to remain present until business is concluded," he said with a broad smile. "Think of this as that payback for my wife I said I didn't need earlier. Eight million dollars tomorrow and you spending the night on the floor here, and I think we can call ourselves square, don't you?"

With that, he turned to accept his hat from his silent associate, and started toward the stairs, but just as his foot hit the first step, he paused and turned back to them. "How did you both get free of your handcuffs?" he asked slowly. "Marie said you were both handcuffed to the beams down here…?" Verne made his way back toward the pair. Reddington carefully watched the other man approach, but Liz, on the other side of the column, was unable to do anything more than listen to the soft approach of expensive shoes. "So… which one of you is the escape artist?" he asked, looking at Reddington critically.

After a long moment of studying Reddington's face with narrowed eyes, Verne made his decision, and motioned to the man by the stairs, who stepped forward immediately. "It's her—break her right hand."

"Frederick—" Reddington growled warningly, but the other man pressed a knowledgeable hand into Red's side, causing him to bear down in silent pain as his face twisted and his breath was stolen from him. Verne unemotionally placed his foot behind one of Reddington's knees, and the man folded inelegantly to the ground, still gasping.

Her wrists attached to his, Liz was dragged down as Red collapsed, her arms drawn back as he brought his forward—a reflex to try to catch himself—and her back slid down the column between them until she landed in an uncomfortable squat on the floor. She felt Reddington's left hand wrap protectively around her right one, but there was no sense in both of them having injured hands, so with a defiant glare at the man above her, she pulled free of Red's grasp.

Verne knelt in front of Reddington and lifted the other man's face to look him in the eye before speaking. "Before I met you, someone once described you to me as a man I would always enjoy having a drink with, and the most dependable Fixer and Finder in the business. But, they said, if I crossed you, that dependability would come back to haunt me, because your vengeance was always— _uniformly_ —unfeeling, vicious, and broad."

Out of the corner of his eye, Red saw the bodyguard's foot swing quickly toward the beam behind him, and felt a sharp jerk on his left cuff, accompanied not by a scream, or a whimper, but a long, ragged inhaled breath followed by several shuddering, panted exhalations. Other than that, she didn't make a sound.

"Now, let's be clear. You crossed me first, and I'm simply acting the way you would in my situation," Verne said, patting Reddington on the cheek in a patronizing way. "So take this as a compliment," he suggested, pushing himself back up to a standing position. He started up the stairs, and without turning around he added, "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, you know."

…:::…

TBC.

The specific descriptions of right and left hands in this chapter are dedicated to Michelle My Belle. I hope this didn't read like fictional twister. :)

Let me know if you liked it! Let me know if you didn't!


	11. Frederick Verne: Conclusion

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist, or the characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's Note: Three month pause. Sorry about that! Hoping to wrap up this story in Ch12. Also? This update is for Becca, who reminded me that I really do love this story, and I really need to finish it. :)

…:::…

Liz waited until the door closed and the deadbolt slid into place above them before she allowed herself to make any noise, and even then, it was only a low, tortured sound, hissed out from between clenched teeth. The man had pinned her arm in place along the beam and kicked, his steel-toed boot catching the base of her fingers and knuckles and crushing them against the solid support.

The noise he heard come from Liz made fury spread like fire through Reddington's chest. He was pinned uncomfortably, his arms now hauled back on either side of the pole by Liz's instinct to draw in on herself. His ribs made breathing difficult as it was, and the tension Liz was exerting on him didn't help. "Lizzie?" His voice came out tight but steady as he craned his head to the side to try to see her hand, her face. When she didn't answer, his voice got more urgent. "Lizzie." Reddington clenched his jaw against the pain and twisted his torso. He could see her, perched on her toes in a crouch, her body arched away from the column, but her head thrown back against the support. Both of her arms were tense, elbows bent as much as the handcuffs and his arms would allow, her shoulders tight and high. " _Lizzie_."

" _What_?" she ground out between gritted teeth.

"I need to know how badly you're hurt. Is it your arm, or your hand?" Reddington asked, trying not to move his left wrist, lest he cause her more pain with the handcuffs.

Liz dropped unceremoniously from her crouch, extending her legs out in front of her and landing hard on the cement floor. She rolled her head to the right to glance down at her hand, and caught the anguished look on the edge of Reddington's face as he watched her. Her eyes watering from the pain, she immediately looked away, pressing the back of her head firmly into the pole behind her again as she worked to slow her breathing.

As Reddington listened to her continue to pant in pain, he shifted his weight to sit on the floor, a low groan escaping him as he repositioned himself without the use of his hands for balance as he settled onto the cement. He turned to look at her hand again, and was relieved to see nothing at odd angles or bleeding. "Lizzie," he tried again, "I need you to tell me where you're hurt. I don't want to pull on this handcuff if your wrist is broken, but I have to tell you, my ribs would appreciate a little more slack in the line if you could spare it."

Her left arm immediately released, and swung behind her to rest on the floor, palm down, near Reddington's hip. He relaxed slightly, repositioning with the use of his right hand before placing it over hers on the ground. Her fingers immediately curled in and she awkwardly grasped his hand. He gave her a comforting squeeze back, and stayed silent.

After several minutes, Liz gave a sigh and cleared her throat, releasing Reddington's hand, and allowing more slack in the handcuffs on her injured side. "Please tell me he's on your list," she said fiercely. "Please tell me we get to go after him."

"If he wasn't on my Blacklist before, he is now, I can promise you that," Reddington replied. "But I'm going to suggest we never make the FBI aware of this one. I think Frederick Verne could be handled… _privately_."

"I'm surprised you allowed him to exist before now," Liz continued, her voice still strained. "He's kind of stealing your look." She gave a harsh, uncontrolled laugh that sounded almost like a sob. "Unless you actually stole his…?"

"No, around the time I made off with his wife, he made off with my image. Really, I would hope you think I've got a _bit_ more class than a cheap imitation artist."

"You haven't always worn that hat and those suits," Liz countered. "I've seen pictures in your file of you with long hair and _much_ less sophisticated clothing."

Reddington bobbed his head, grimacing. "An unfortunate period of time when I needed to be less noticeable. If I ever find out who it was that decided _that_ damn picture needed to be the one they used for the Wanted posters, I'll—"

"Break their hand?" Liz interrupted. "Break some of their ribs? Tie them to something to make them suffer…?"

Reddington winced and turned his head to the side, looking down at her uninjured left hand on the ground beside his. "Lizzie, I'm so sorry," he said, his voice thick. "If there had been anything…" Reddington found he couldn't finish his sentence, and rolled his head back against the column.

"It's only fair, I suppose. I had to sit and watch someone break your ribs. You had to sit there while someone broke my hand." Liz sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "But if we're going to keep this tit-for-tat thing going, do me a favor and don't get shot in front of me. I've never been, and I'd rather not know how it feels."

"You've already seen me get shot." Red's voice drifted around from behind the beam, and Liz's forehead wrinkled as she ran through her memories of the last two years.

"No. I'd remember that," she said confidently. "If you were shot in the last two years, I wasn't present."

Reddington sighed and raised an eyebrow that Liz couldn't see. "Well… you shot your ex-husband three times in the stomach during the same altercation, so afterwards… you understandably weren't paying a lot of attention to me."

It took Liz a moment to process the information. "He… he shot you?" She turned her head to the side so she could see his shoulder in her peripheral vision. "He missed. You… you walked out of there just fine…?"

"Clipped my arm; just a deep scratch." Reddington turned his head to the same side as Liz, just able to make out the curve of her face from the corner of his eye. "One of the benefits of wearing a dark suit: blood stains aren't highly noticeable."

"No wonder you wanted to kill him," Liz said, remembering how he had advanced on Tom, his gun pointed unwaveringly at his head. "You don't like being insulted, and I bet you take being shot at as a pretty big insult. I'm actually really surprised you _didn't_ kill him."

Red's low voice replied immediately, "You asked me not to."

Liz tried to imagine the size of the violent impulse Reddington had swallowed for her in that moment, but figured her imagination couldn't possibly do it justice. Dropping her eyes to where their hands lay palm-down next to each other on the concrete, she considered moving her fingers toward his. The outside edges of their hands were separated by no more than two inches, but just as she twitched her pinky finger with intended movement, Reddington gave a deep sigh and turned to face forward again, his hand rolling into a loose, but closed-off fist.

After a beat, Liz mirrored him, straightening her head and leaning it back against the pole with an apologetic, "I didn't know." She left her palm splayed on the ground.

"It wasn't important at the time. You didn't _need_ to know," he said, bending one knee and shifting his position slightly.

"No, but it's… details. You said before you don't have anything personal to give. But you do; everyone does. You have preferences, and history, and…" Liz sighed. "We're stuck here until morning, and my hand is killing me. Tell me a story, but this time I want it to be about _you_. No lesson, no grand scheme or flashy punchline designed to impress… You talk about the expensive ties you buy, and the best kind of wine to drink, or why one should always use a professional tailor for suit alterations, but I feel like most of the time that's the character you play speaking. I don't want to know something about the 'Concierge of Crime', or even about 'Red'…" Liz shook her head and shrugged. "I want… I don't know…" Liz bit her lip and cast her eyes toward the ceiling again, slightly thankful there was no way to look him in the eye right now. "I want to know… _one thing_ about… 'Raymond'."

His first name sounded strange to both their ears. Reddington had gone by many aliases in the last twenty-five years, and even when he wasn't hiding, almost everyone used his last name, or the more common shortened version of it. It was rare that he even responded to hearing 'Raymond' when in public; a mother shouting for her child on a playground or on the street. Lately it didn't even register as his name. It felt foreign for Liz to be inquiring about that man.

Like a child not wanting to lose the taste of the last bite of chocolate from their mouth, it took Reddington a long time to reply, not wanting to fill the air with a different sound. "That name sounds strange when you say it," he finally offered.

Liz turned her head, but left her eyes pointing, unfocussed, at the ground. "Do you not like your name?"

"That hasn't felt like my name in years," he admitted.

"See? That wasn't so hard," Liz said softly. "And now I know something about you."

"Oh, you know more about me than most do."

Liz frowned. "That's sad. I feel like you know _everything_ about me, and I know next to nothing about you. I can't imagine the rest of the world knowing _less_."

"I don't know everything about you, Lizzie. I know… facts; I don't know preferences, opinions. And recently when I've tried to guess at them, I've been wrong."

Liz quirked a smile. "I'm sorry, you've been _what_? What did you just say?"

Reddington couldn't stop the twitch at the side of his own lips. "Careful, Lizzie. Smug people are unattractive."

"Well then it's a good thing you can't see me right now. Besides, 'smug' is one of your three default expressions, and it's only fair that I get to borrow it every once in a while." Liz crossed her legs in front of herself, and gave a small tug on her left cuff to prompt Reddington's answer. "So, what don't you know about me?"

Reddington sighed and tilted his head. "Your taste in music. What book made you love reading, if one ever did? Whether you like fireworks. Your favorite sound, your favorite taste, your favorite color…" He trailed off, not sure what he was actually asking of her.

"Well, that last one is easy," she said with fake sincerity. "It used to be red, but now, more often than not, the color just tends to annoy me." When there was neither motion nor sound from behind her, Liz twisted her body to try to peer around the column at him. She lifted her left hand off the ground and flicked the back of his hand lightly to get his attention. "...That was a joke." Liz maintained her uncomfortable position, despite the painful stretch it put on her right hand. "My favorite color really _is_ red," she said after waiting another moment. When Reddington finally moved, twisting his head to meet her eyes over his shoulder, she gave him a small, sheepish smile. "My first car was bright red." Her smile widened a bit. "I got a lot of speeding tickets in that thing."

…:::…

An hour later, Liz had managed to nudge a half-empty cardboard box close enough with one foot that it could be positioned under her right elbow. Reddington had lied and gritted his teeth when she asked if resting their arms on the structure so she could elevate her hand would put him in a bad position in terms of his own injuries. Her hand had started to throb as it swelled, and he knew she'd be more comfortable if it was propped up. To prove he didn't mind the way his arm was held aloft, his shoulder pulled back, he'd launched into another story.

"…but Yasmine was never one to torture a man for too terribly long, so the next words out of her mouth, sure enough, were 'I'm sorry' and 'here's the antidote.'"

Liz gave a short, incredulous laugh, and shook her head. "And this was all at the top of the Eiffel Tower?"

"On New Years Eve," Reddington confirmed with a nod.

"I don't have any good New Years stories; that night always seems to turn out…boring for me," Liz said, bending one knee up and then the other to stretch. "I've never gotten into any trouble worse than having too much champagne and locking my keys in my car one year. I was too tipsy to break into the damn thing, and Tom didn't know how…." Liz trailed off, and frowned. "No, I suppose he knew how, he just pretended he didn't. So we slept on a friend's pull out couch and I popped the door open the next morning. All very vanilla, in comparison to yours."

"Not a fan of vanilla?"

"It can be boring," Liz answered.

They fell into silence, the levity of Reddington's Paris story gone, but before the momentum of the conversation was lost entirely, Liz asked, "Speaking of flavors… you seem to have such a romantic relationship with food. What's your favorite?"

"Food? I don't have one. That's like asking someone to pick their favorite hair on their head. There's too many." Reddington didn't turn around, but from the soft rustle of clothing and the slight tug on both his wrists, he could tell Liz had shifted to look at him, and he didn't need to see her face to guess the expression on it. "...okay, maybe not _my_ head," he said, gesturing as much as his restraints would allow.

Liz settled back against the pole. "If you could have any food in the world right now, delivered here—" Reddington interrupted with two quick tugs on their handcuffs, reminding her that he wouldn't be able to eat it. "—okay, _and fed to you_ , what would you want?"

Reddington sighed and closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side as he considered the question. "Anything home cooked. Restaurant food can be delicious, but there's just something about the time taken and the singular concentration on the task that makes something cooked in a person's home just taste..." His mouth moved almost as if he were imaging a specific flavor. "It's more personal. You don't get that in a restaurant. Or even with a hired chef. Whatever food it is... the home it's prepared in seems to be the secret ingredient."

"Lamb chops," Liz volunteered after a pause.

"Your favorite?"

" _Oh_ ," she said, the word low and drawn out like a moan. "Yes. They have to be prepared well, but when they are…. _It doesn't get any better than that_. I always order them on special occasions; every birthday." Turning her head, she prompted, "Best birthday?"

"Hmm…" Reddington paused to think. "I don't remember what year it was, which birthday, but there's a company out of Kona that will take you scuba diving at night to see manta rays. You descend down to the ocean floor, and look up, and they turn massive spot lights on, directed up toward the surface, and… these animals just _fly_ above you through the water, dozens of them, like reverse silhouettes, the underside of them standing out white against the blackness. It's dark, and warm, and _so quiet_ except for the harsh sound of your own breathing through your mask. It's peaceful, and yet at the same time you're acutely aware that without the tank on your back… human beings can't survive in that environment. It's a stolen view that by all rights shouldn't naturally be ours. One thing goes wrong with your oxygen, and… yet those gorgeous, silent ghosts above you would just keep flying. You don't matter to them at all. Seemed like a good way to go, actually. The thought was almost…enticing… in its serenity."

Liz looked down at her left hand, and again resisted the impulse to move it toward Reddington's where it rested next to hers, palms still flat on the concrete. "That sounds awfully bleak for it to be your favorite birthday," she said softly.

"I don't usually celebrate. But don't misunderstand… it was stunningly beautiful. I recommend it if you ever get the chance." Red paused before adding, "And yours?"

"My favorite birthday? Um… I've never really gotten excited about mine, either. I mean… It's just a random day; it's not my _actual_ birthday…"

"Worst birthday, then," Reddington interrupted, his voice low.

Liz took a deep breath. "Last year. My thirtieth. That week I found out Tom was not the man I thought I married. My whole marriage was a lie." Liz cringed, thinking about it. "We went out to dinner with friends, and I barely kept my food down." Liz closed her eyes and swallowed, willing herself not to get overly emotional. "I got a really great gift that year, though, which took the edge off."

"I'm sure Tom gave you something extravagant, since things were starting to—"

"I don't even remember what Tom gave me," Liz interrupted. "But someone else gave me a really beautiful music box."

…:::…

The next hour was spent mostly in silence.

Liz's back was starting to ache, and she could only imagine how much Reddington hurt, his arms pinned to hers and who knows how many broken ribs. Her hand was swollen and angry, her third and fourth fingers purple and fatter than the rest.

"I want in," Liz said, interrupting the quiet.

"On what?" Reddington asked, his voice tired. He had closed his eyes some time ago, willing sleep to take the pain from his side, and, increasingly as he sat on the hard floor, his back.

"Cases. Connections. I know you'll refuse to tell me anything about my past… What if we make a deal? I've gone this long not being able to remember what happened the night of the fire. _You_ promise you'll never try to get into my head again, and that one day you _will_ tell me _everything_ , and in the mean time, you let me in on all aspects of the cases we work together. How you know the Blacklister, your past with them… It won't go in any official report; I'll consider it an extension of your immunity agreement that only goes as far as me. But I want to know. I want in."

"And in exchange…?" Reddington asked, his eyes open now.

"I give you the Fulcrum."

Reddington considered the offer for a long moment. "How will you know I'm giving you everything? Letting you in on all the details? Once I get the Fulcrum, how do you know I'll hold up my end of the bargain?"

Liz took a deep breath. The truth was she didn't. "I guess I'll just have to trust you."

The pair lapsed back into silence.

…:::…

TBC.

Review! Please...?


	12. Raymond Reddington

Disclaimer: They're not mine! I make no money from this!

Author's Note: I can only apologize profusely for the delay in posting this. "MY Reddington?" kind of took over my fic writing time for the better part of the fall, and as much as I wanted to finish this (I hate having out-standing, unfinished stories; it bugs the hell out of me), I just couldn't find the next step for this. Anyway, this is dedicated to Becca, the best guest reviewer ever who I can't reply to, and almcvay1, who sweetly explains how I should fix my fic problems every time they occur. :)

…:::...

Liz looked at the single, small window high up on the far wall in the basement. It was pitch black outside, and the harsh light from the single hanging bulb made it impossible to see anything other than a distorted reflection of a small section of the room.

She figured it must be the early hours of the morning, but neither she nor Reddington wore a watch, and their cell phones had been taken from them as they were dragged downstairs.

She yawned, and rolled her shoulders. "Do you think I'm bad luck?" she asked.

There was a pause, and for a moment Liz thought maybe Reddington had had more success trying to fall asleep than she'd enjoyed.

"No." His voice was deep, and low. He sounded exhausted. "Why? Do  _you_  think you are?"

Liz shrugged, even though the action couldn't be seen. "I've been operating under the belief that ever since you entered my life, things have gone wrong… It never occurred to me that  _I_  screwed up _your_  life when  _you_  met  _me_ … My presence in your life has been just as destructive as your presence in mine."

"You're not a broken mirror, Lizzie. You're not just some black cat that wandered across my path."

"My name has thirteen letters in it," she pointed out.

"The name you use  _now_. Not your given name," Reddington corrected.

Liz struggled to sit up straighter, and twisted sideways, trying to look at the man on the other side of the column. "Excuse me?"

There was a sharp knocking—the sound of knuckles on glass—and both of them stopped talking. Reddington was the first to realize who it was.

"Dembe."

Liz craned her neck around to see that Reddington had his face turned up toward the small window.

"How do you know? You can't see a thing through that window!"

"We can't see him, but he can see us," Reddington said matter-of-factly. He shifted awkwardly on the ground and raised his right hand, dragging Liz's left with it. He held up four fingers, then just a single one, motioning upward. He nodded at the window.

"What was that?" Liz asked. "Did you just tell him to  _take out_  Felix and her grandsons? Red?"

"I told him there were four people upstairs," Reddington replied nonchalantly.

"Let's circle back to how you know that was Dembe," Liz said uncomfortably, her sleepiness from a moment before now a distant memory.

"I know his knock."

"You know his—? Okay. Sure." Liz sighed in frustration. After a beat, she asked, "Is he going to kill them?"

Reddington pursed his lips and bobbed his head from side to side noncommittally. "Depends on if they shoot first."

Liz opened her mouth to reply as the sounds of muffled gunfire and shouts disturbed the quiet of the building.

"Yes, he's probably going to kill them," Reddington amended.

Less than three minutes later, the sound of the deadbolt sliding back heralded Dembe's arrival at the top of the stairs. As he hurried down towards them, Reddington made a sound of disappointment. "Dembe, as soon as we're out of here, you and I are going to have a frank discussion about how long it's acceptable to wait if I've been detained. You don't happen to have the keys to the handcuffs, do you?"

Dembe knelt next to Reddington and looked down at the restraints tethering them around the column. He looked back up at his employer. "No, I don't. And you told me you wanted to spend the day alone with Elizabeth. I was giving you space." Dembe turned to Liz. "Can't you pick the lock?"

"'Giving him  _space_ '?" Liz repeated in disbelief. "Is this why you didn't expect him sooner?" she asked Reddington, pulling on the cuffs with her left hand. "You told him to clear out? What was this, a date?"

"Elizabeth's right hand is broken," Reddington explained in a business-like tone. "You're going to need to find something to—"

"Reddington!"

"—cut through the metal, or break it… And no, Lizzie. I don't generally take the women I'm interested in to bookstores run by evil old ladies in orthopedic shoes. I haven't found that to be a particularly effective aphrodisiac." Reddington nodded toward the corner of the room, off to his left. "Dembe, try that."

Liz waited silently, unable to see Dembe as he crossed in front of Reddington behind her. When he reappeared at her right side holding a large, flat-headed axe, she instinctively drew her injured hand in toward her body, pulling Reddington's arm back with the handcuffs. He hissed, but said nothing, making no move to fight against her pull. "Sorry—sorry—" Liz said quickly, replacing her arm on the box beside them. She looked up at Dembe. "If you're going to do that, I'd rather you aim at the other side. And be careful of him," she added, nodding backwards. "He's got a few broken ribs."

Dembe gave a quiet, quick countdown from three before he swung the axe toward the pole, catching the midsection of the cuffs square on. The force wasn't enough to split the metal tether between them completely, but one of the links was damaged enough that Dembe was able to work it loose.

"Good enough," Reddington said, taking Dembe's offered hand and climbing to his feet. He rounded the column and, still attached to Liz's injured hand, held her right forearm steady as Dembe helped her stand. Liz stretched stiffly, and nodded.

"Let's go."

…:::...

Reddington opened the door to the backseat as Dembe climbed into the front and started the car. Liz paused for a moment, looking down at the handcuffs between them.

"I'll go first," Reddington said, already sliding across the seat.

On their way out through the smashed front door of the bookstore, Liz had spotted their cell phones sitting on a counter, and had dragged Reddington back inside to grab them. She still held them in her uninjured hand, and Reddington motioned at his, silently requesting it. She passed it to him without comment.

"Dembe, we're going to need to head to the clinic," Reddington said, raising his voice toward the front seat. He quickly dialed a number, and held the phone to his ear. "Giang, darling, it's been far too long, and I've missed your beautiful smile."

Liz turned away and looked, unseeing, out the window beside her.

Reddington laughed, and continued, "Of  _course_  I'm still getting into trouble. Better busy than bored, I've always said. Tonight being no exception, I'm not suffering from boredom, but rather a few pesky broken ribs and a small head wound. And I have an associate with me who'll need your healing touch as well—" he paused, listening. "No, don't call the whole team. You're all we need tonight." Another pause. "Thank you. Of course." Reddington hung up the phone and tossed it on the seat between them. "Dembe, I neglected to ask—do we need to call Mr. Kaplan, or the FBI to clean up the mess we left back at the bookstore?"

"One of the men is dead," the man in the front seat answered calmly. "But the woman is alive. The other two will need medical attention."

"FBI it is, then." Reddington turned to look at Liz and pointed at the phone in her lap. "Go ahead and wake up Agent Ressler. It's not like beauty sleep does him any good."

…:::...

By the time they were done with x-rays, splints, and bandages, the sky was turning from inky black to a silent dark blue. Liz had been given an initial dose of painkillers at the clinic, and the doctor had handed her a generous bottle to take home, with strict instructions to follow the label and not take more than indicated. The remaining handcuffs had been removed before the imaging was performed, and as Liz staggered from the car—outside what she assumed was another one of Reddington's safe houses—she couldn't imagine taking any additional medication. Her head felt like a balloon barely attached to the rest of her, and she'd only taken one.

Liz stopped, attempting to get her bearings. Reddington saw her sway and gestured to Dembe, who had a strong arm around her waist almost immediately.

"I'm staying here tonight," Liz said, aware that she should have phrased her statement as a question, but unconcerned that she hadn't.

"Yes, you are," Reddington said, slowly following the other two through the front door.

Dembe lowered Liz onto one of the couches in the large main room, and retreated quickly, taking his cue from Reddington, who made a beeline for the small bar in the corner of the room as soon as they were alone. Liz watched him, frowning.

"I don't think you're supposed to mix alcohol with whatever pain medication the doctor gave us…"

Reddington took a sip of his drink and turned back to face Liz. "I didn't take any."

Liz's eyes dropped to his midsection. "Why not?" she asked, concerned.

"Well… look at you. Dembe may be strong, but he can't carry both of us." Reddington moved into the center of the room and lowered himself gingerly into a large armchair across from Liz. "How's your hand?"

Liz looked at her bulky splint and sighed, but said nothing.

Reddington didn't press her. He raised his glass, stared down into it for a moment, and took another sip.

"Do you… how do you do this?" Liz asked.

Reddington ignored her half-formed question. "Lizzie, why don't you get some sleep? Dembe will help you into your room when—"

"How do you live your life this way?" Her voice was soft, but clear. "People trying to kill you… Never having a place to call home… The FBI and half of the criminal underworld trying to capture you, or kill you, or rob you. How do you keep a decent sense of self through all that? What is it that keeps you grounded? Most people under these conditions would end up with some kind of sociopathy… or psychopathy…"

Reddington balanced his drink on the arm of the chair, and ran his fingers absently up and down the sides of the glass. "' _Love. Love madly. Love more than you can, and if they say it's a sin, love your sin, and you will be innocent_ '." When Liz looked at him with surprise, he clarified, "Shakespeare."

Liz shook her head, as if the motion would help her understand his words through the fog, but it only served to make her dizzy. With a groan, she tilted sideways and curled into the deep cushions. "It's too late and I'm too tired for Shakespeare. What does it mean?"

"There are many ways to interpret the Bard… which is why his work is so timeless and resonates with so many people."

"What does it mean to  _you_ , though?" she prompted, her eyes already closed.

Reddington sighed and shifted in his chair with a wince. "You mentioned sociopaths… psychopaths… and I know I don't need to explain the finer points of each of those diagnoses to you—you already know—but both do have a propensity for violence and an indifference to others' suffering or rights. Psychopaths can't form emotional attachments to people, but because of their intelligence and ability to manipulate…" Reddington trailed off, wondering if Liz was asleep. Her eyes were still closed, and she hadn't moved a muscle.

"...they're talented at convincing others they _do_  care… they're charming..." she mumbled softly. "I'm awake," she insisted. "Keep talking."

Reddington rolled his tongue against his teeth and sipped his drink before he continued. "They're difficult to capture, and generally have things planned out five steps ahead of anyone pursuing them."

"You're not a psychopath, Red," Liz sighed, pulling the decorative blanket from the back of the couch down over herself without opening her eyes.

"Well, I certainly hope not," Reddington replied. "I never want to arrive at the day I lose… humanity. I've done terrible things in my life, Lizzie. Some of those terrible things I've done to you. Or to those you care about. But that quote… To me it means that I'm not an irredeemable monster if I still have the capacity to love. And even if I choose something that isn't perfect, as long as I love it…" Reddington looked out the window behind Liz, to the gradually lightening sky. He gave a small, tired exhale that was a sad imitation of a self-deprecating laugh, and shook his head. "I can't even say 'as long as I love it, I'm innocent'. I can't say 'as long as I love it, I'm still a good man'. I often think the things I care about would be better off without me. But I can't sit by and do nothing when the world threatens those I hold dear. If I love something, I'm willing to give up everything…  _sacrifice_  anything..." Reddington realized he wasn't making much sense, and wiped an exhausted hand across his eyes. "I suppose that makes my selflessness quite selfish, actually. Narcissistic. Even if my involvement causes you pain, I refuse to stand idle or leave you alone, because I believe I know the best—or only—way to resolve the problem." Reddington drained the last sip from his glass and set it down on the small table next to him. "Now that I think about it, that's a terrible quote. ' _Love something ferociously_ ,'" he paraphrased, "' _and even if that love is harmful, just keep at it_.' Maybe Shakespeare got it wrong. It's actually just awful advice, beautifully disguised in elegant language." Reddington glanced down at his empty glass. "Like a murderer in a three-thousand dollar bespoke suit," he added, his voice barely audible.

After a long pause, he looked over at the woman ensconced on the couch. Her face was smooth and unworried, and her slow, even breaths came softly through her slightly parted lips.

"I'm so sorry that I love you, Lizzie," he apologized in a low, ragged voice.

There was no response, as he had expected.

With a sigh, Reddington pushed himself up out of the large chair and reached under the lamp shade near where Liz lay, clicking it off and plunging the room into a pre-dawn grey that still allowed him to navigate out into the hall toward his bedroom.

…:::...

TBC. Gotta go after Verne, right? ;)


End file.
